


Hold Me Close As The Ticker Thyme Chimes; We'll Talk Of Bedknobs And Bygone Times

by SexyCoinkiDicks



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: (mostly in part IV), (parts V and VI only), Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Backstory, Best Friends, Big Bang Challenge, Bittersweet, Body Paint, Broken Families, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Domestic Fluff, Dorkiness, Embedded Images, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Family Feels, Fantasy, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Kissing, M/M, Married Life, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Mutual Pining, No Underage Sex, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Protective Siblings, Purple Prose, References to Shakespeare, Sappy, Secret Relationship, Smut, Stargazing, Teen Romance, Time Skips, True Love, Wendimoor, Worldbuilding, literal baby-carrying storks, poetic bs, weird plants and animals are referenced everywhere because this is Wendimoor and Silas is a nerd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-20 17:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15539295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SexyCoinkiDicks/pseuds/SexyCoinkiDicks
Summary: The middle of their tale you already know; a tale of magic and mayhem, of hearts beating as one even across the divide of dimensions. The beginning and end you do not, though it’s fair to assume there was and will be; a journey of a thousand words begins with a letter on a page, and some might say it’s the last word that makes the journey worthwhile. But we are not here to talk of beginnings or endings. We are here to talk of in-betweens. The missing pieces, the stolen seconds, long days and lonesome nights of wishing, waiting, hoping.What await you within these pages, dear reader, are but a few of these seconds. Events and non-events, momentous and mundane alike, simple moments that would join these two noble souls forever in love, altered not with brief hours and weeks. Moments that would cement the bonds of the body, the mind, the spirit.And they begin, as many such moments in the lives of lovers do, with a bed.Panto and Silas; a brief snapshot of what makes them Panto and Silas.~Transferred from my primary Ao3 account~





	Hold Me Close As The Ticker Thyme Chimes; We'll Talk Of Bedknobs And Bygone Times

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I said I wasn't gonna write in the bang this year? Yeah. Turns out I'm a big lying liar.
> 
> I'd originally planned to write this story for the Beginner Bang, but being the one with the spreadsheets of destiny I figured out that there were already too many authors for artists and I wasn't that invested so I graciously withdrew. And then, lo and behold, my final numbers for the Big Bang come in and you know what I see? 16 amazing summaries, not ONE for my fantasy gays. Affronted, I flung my half-baked concept into the ring and just as I thought, I had artists lining up to draw that pretty pink hair. Two fantastic artists, in fact, lesbianlitzibitztrost (featured in parts II and III) and zaera-d (featured in part VII), whose beautiful illustrations you should definitely ogle (sorry you guys didn't have more pantlas to choose from- I hope my meagre offering lived up to expectations!)
> 
> So, after a lot of rethinking and re-shuffling, a hefty stretch of procrastination and an intensive final week of taking my flowery-ass prose and throwing an extra handful of pansies at it, here it is: a brief history of Panto and Silas.
> 
> Enjoy! <3
> 
> [Art post by lesbianlitzibitztrost ](http://karinhart.tumblr.com/post/177172853970/for-the-dghdabigbang-i-had-the-immense-pleasure)
> 
> [Art post by zaera-d ](http://dont-offend-the-bees.tumblr.com/post/177175665032/zaera-d-this-is-my-pantlas-submission-for-the)
> 
> [My Panto/Silas mix](https://open.spotify.com/user/lilyenrenn/playlist/44kT8fbCcVwQrDIgfv7HYA)

**~Foreword~**

 

_Once upon a time, in the wondrous and war-torn Wendimoor, there was a prophecy._

_All of Wendimoor, war-torn no longer, knows this story. The story of the sleeping boy and the magical detective, the fate of one held in the palm of the other. Together they stood at the centre of the prophecy, the destiny of two worlds upon their shoulders. It’s a story as commonly taught and importantly thought as the language of the land itself; after all, ‘twas the prophecy that would end a war, unite a kingdom under the rightful rule of the boy king, and steer the storm-thrashed vessel of the universe back on course._

_And around that story, fanning out like spokes on a silver spiderweb, slim and scarce but no less treasured by those in the know, are other stories._

_Only briefly did these tales meet, overlapping and interlocking by the eyes of the cosmos for the merest heartbeat in spacetime, before their subjects did as all mortal things do and moved on, never enough time in such a little life to settle for anything more than transient acquaintance with the narrative of another. Gone in a blink was the friendship and tutelage of the swamp witch to the girl with the mandelbrot soul. Fleetingly the footfalls of the wide-worlder mapped the forests, criss-crossed the paths of travellers previous like threads on a tapestry._

_And momentarily, in the cold, bloody juncture wherein the threads of all these stories tangled, the star-crossed lovers of Inglenook reached the end of theirs._

_Thankfully, it was not more than a greater cosmic millisecond before all was made right and the lovers were reunited with their lives, and each other. Even by the measure of their brief mortal existence, the moment they ended was but a ripple in a vast and tranquil pond. Both men- one the son of wealth, one a child of the land- lived long and full lives, before and after their untimely ends on the bloodstained dirt. Their stories grew together, and would continue to flourish; and unlike the brevity with which they dovetailed the events of the unfolding prophecy, their tales would remain forever intertwined._

_The middle of their tale you already know; a tale of magic and mayhem, of hearts beating as one even across the divide of dimensions. The beginning and end you do not, though it’s fair to assume there was and will be; a journey of a thousand words begins with a letter on a page, and some might say it’s the last word that makes the journey worthwhile. But we are not here to talk of beginnings or endings. We are here to talk of in-betweens. The missing pieces, the stolen seconds, long days and lonesome nights of wishing, waiting, hoping._

_What await you within these pages, dear reader, are but a few of these seconds. Events and non-events, momentous and mundane alike, simple moments that would join these two noble souls forever in love, altered not with brief hours and weeks. Moments that would cement the bonds of the body, the mind, the spirit._

_And they begin, as many such moments in the lives of lovers do, with a bed._

 

**~I~**

 

“Silas!” Panto calls, voice tumbling into the room shortly before his body. A little showy, perhaps, but he has to make that boring climb up to the balcony interesting _somehow._ And his amateur acrobatics are oft a source of great amusement to his best friend. “You should come outside, there’s a pregnant doormouse in the whirlyblooms and I think it’s about to…

He trails off when he realises that Silas isn’t at his desk. Or fussing over the parrot in its cage. Or even on the floor, criss-cross applesauce as he sketches in that journal of his, hands and face black and dusty with charcoal. In fact, he notes with disgruntlement, his friend seems to be entirely absent from anywhere he _should_ be at this time of day, and therefore unable to appreciate his gymnastic entrance in the slightest. Perhaps he’s still at dinner.

A theory shortly belied by the miserable sniffle from the bed.

Panto cocks his head curiously, watching as the lump atop the mattress he’d briefly mistaken for Silas’ many unsorted clothes shifts and sniffles again. “Silas?” he asks, stepping boldly closer- it may, of course, be one of Silas’ many adopted pets or even an interloping boogaboo, but Panto has always preferred to see the best in people and shapeless mounds of textile. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” comes the gloomy response, which at least serves to confirm the presence of his friend. Further confirmation comes with the pair of eyes- brown and warm like melted chocolate- peeping owlishly over the edge of the blanket. Pretty though they surely be, they seem rather redder and puffier than usual. “‘M sick.”

“Oh,” says Panto, discontented. But he shakes it off with brightening cheer- so what if Silas can’t come play outside? They can remain here, and he can keep his sickly friend company unto the morn. “Okay. We can go see the mouse another time- I’m sure she and her babes will still be there tomorrow.” He bounds ‘cross the chamber and flops upon the bed, rummaging through his vast and well-stocked dungaree pockets with a merry grin. “Wanna play jacks?”

But alas Silas merely shakes his head, before retreating with it once more into the blanket cocoon.

“...Dominoes?”

“No, thanks.”

Panto frowns, perturbed. Silas _loves_ playing games when he’s sick- it helps take his mind off his ailment, and keeps his restless hands from idling in wretchedness. During the cold of the winter previous they’d played, like, eight _thousand_ rounds of snap. “What’s wrong?”

“...Nothing,” Silas repeats, though he hath the cadence of a boy most unconvinced by his own evasion.

“Silas, what happened?”

“No-”

_“Silas.”_

Given pause by his severity, Silas draws himself in tight as a knot beneath shielding sheets and Panto’s watchful eye. Then, with a sigh of weary defeat, emerge his hands.

Panto stares at his red, swollen knuckles in abject horror. “Silas, what-?”

“Sword training,” says Silas, voice thick with despondency. “I was bad.”

Bristling like a slighted cat, Panto clenches his fists in the covers. Of course. The captain of the Dengdamor Royal Guard was said to be a ruthless cad, and Silas was anything but gifted in the art of combat; evidently the brute’s patience was wearing thin. “Where is he,” Panto demands, bouncing to his feet spry as a spring stoat. “When I find him, I shall-”

 _“No,”_ says Silas, catching Panto by the wrist with uncommon swiftness. “No, Panto, it’s alright.”

“He hurt you!”

“Yes, but I… I messed up.”

“I don’t care, he shouldn’t have-!”

_“Panto.”_

Vexation snuffed, Panto sags back onto the bed to wallow in impotent pique. Though his blood remains a-broiling, he knows that tone of voice. Can hear the tremor of unshed tears within the timbre. If he fails to heed the warning he’ll only further upset Silas, and that’s the last thing he wishes. So he composes himself, breath by slow breath until his fists uncurl. Until Silas’ thumb can trace light, mollifying circles upon his palm.

“Thank you,” Silas murmurs, voice low in muted gratitude.

“...I would’ve done it, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s not right.”

“I know.”

He would have. He would have hunted that meanie zucchini down and duelled him to submission for daring to hurt his lov-best friend. His best friend. Hurt him like he hurt Silas. It was only fair, though evidently fairness be not a quality the swine holds in high esteem. A grown soldier, raining punishment upon a green and sensitive boy of eleven, it was a disgrace to the name of Dengdamor. Clearly, the man was drunk on his own influence; oh, how oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done! The scoundrel ought be taken down a peg, brought to his knees for a time that he might find some humility.

But Silas hates violence, especially on his behalf. Because he’s a good person, noble and true. A better person than Panto, for sure. And utterterly, _absotively_ better than that bullying, brutish, bumbling _boar_ of a teacher. So Panto exhales sharply, shaking his head free of confrontational thoughts- when in doubt, follow in Silas’ gentle footsteps.

Though it nearly shatters his resolve entirely to hear the sniffle at his side. He turns towards the sound, heart clenching at the sight of the unmistakable shakes of a trembling body through the sheets. “Silas? Are you crying?”

 _“No,”_ says Silas, voice too thick to carry off such indignance.

“It’s alright if you are,” assures Panto, venturing a pat to his shuddering shoulder- or at least, what he _assumes_ is his shoulder. “I cry when I get injured, too.”

“Really?”

“...Well. On occasion.”

That, at least, draws a laugh from Silas, though the sound rings out weak and watery. Oh, but that Panto could kiss away those tears. “But,” he wagers, regarding the cloaked form with understanding. “You’re not just crying because it hurts, are you?”

A pause. Then, subtly, a shift in the blankets- he thinks it was a shake of the head.

“Do you... want to talk about it?”

For a minute it seems Silas might choose to ignore his offer, body stilling beneath the blanket burrow as if he can pretend to be anywhere else.

But shortly he sighs, and out pokes his head, curly hair in disarray and eyes downcast as his slender hands fiddle with the corners of his nest. “I… I’ve been trying so _hard._ I have! But never do I ever find my klutzy feet, and find myself rendered foolish by distraction at every turn. I always mess up, and make everyone mad at me and I can’t- I’m not- I don’t know what to…”

He wrings a featherfleece blankets in his hands, and whimpers in wretched discomfort as it chafes his tender knuckles. The pain does nothing to slow his fretting. When Silas gets sad he likes to hold things, tightly, the softer the better. He claimed once, when questioned, that doing so made him feel real. Sometimes, when thoughts and worries got him lost in his mind like a mouse in a maze, he needed to hold tight to something to be himself again.

Necessary it may be, but Panto can’t stand to watch as he inflicts further pain upon himself.

Gently he takes Silas by the hands, drawing them into his chest with care to avoid to raised and ruddy marks of abuse. Hopefully he’s an adequate replacement for the blanket; enough to keep Silas _Silas._

His friend holds on tight, breathing in a perplexing pattern as though he’s starting to forget how it’s done.

“Hey,” says Panto, with a companionable prod of his twirly-toed boot to Silas’ side. “It’s alright! You’ll get better!”

“No I _won’t,”_ Silas whines, sniffling red-faced into his sleeve, Panto’s hand still suspended from his own.

“You don’t know that, silly billy!”

 _“You_ were never as awful as I.”

Panto tuts, rewarding that ridiculous statement with another nudge. “Says who?”

“Loads of people,” says Silas with a doleful shrug of his narrow shoulders. “Everyone I’ve asked says you’re a natural- they say you could lift a sword before you could walk!”

“Well, that’s dumb,” says Panto, thoroughly confuzzled. “What would I have even done with it?”

“Not _literally,_ stupid-head,” grumbles Silas, face flushing prettily. “But you were good, even when you were just beginning. It never took you _this_ long- I started studying at the same age you did! But I’m always so very far behind, seems I have to work twice as hard to get half as far and in the meantime I keep getting hurt and crying like a big, clumsy, _stupid_ crybaby-!”

“Silas!” Panto admonishes, squishing his hands. “Don't be so horrid to yourself- you're not a crybaby!”

Silas snorts and sniffles. “I’m crying right now, dumbo.”

“Yes, because you’re _hurt.”_ Panto rubs Silas’ palms with careful undulations of his thumbs, grateful that at least _they_ escaped that captain’s loutish rage unscathed. “And sad. It’s perfectly alright to cry when you’re hurt and sad, even _I_ know that.” He draws Silas’ hands close to his chest, cradling them there and meeting his gaze with a wry smile. “I thought you were supposed to be smarter than I?”

Silas squawks, fidgeting endearingly in guilt. “I never said that!”

“Oh, no?”

“No!”

“Not even to Wygar? You recall, when he so helpfully took you aside to warn you about the perils of fraternising with ‘my sort’?”

“You-” Silas’ eyes narrow to slits. “You, you were listening to me! You sneaky-”

“I can assure you it was not my intention- on my honour!” Panto chuckles, crossing his heart for good measure. “But you talk loud when you’re nervous.”

“Do _not!”_

“Do too.”

Silas opens his mouth to argue further, but Panto intercepts any such attempt with a palm across it. “You talk loud when you’re mad, too,” he points out, to Silas’ muffled ire. “So best shush, lest Wygar come and toss me outta the window.”

His friend meets his gaze over his hand a moment, brows drawn and chocolate eyes sparking in defiance.

And then something warm and slick trails slowly across Panto’s palm like a swamp slug.

“Eugh!” Panto squeals in manly affront, snatching his hand back. “You _licked_ me! _Gross!”_

 _“You’re_ gross,” mutters Silas, crossing his arms in a sulk. Or attempting to do so, but both remain hostages of Panto’s hand. Silas may be smarter, but Panto’s stronger for sure.

“You’re grosser,” says Panto, grinning merrily. Perchance too merrily to make good of the insult.

Silas blushes deeper, tugging tenaciously at his hands again- which awakens in Panto the realisation that he has the perfect opportunity for retribution right under his nose.

So he grins ever wider, lifts Silas’ right hand to his face, and licks a stripe along the palm.

“Oh, my- _Panto!”_ Silas whines, wriggling like a baitworm in his grasp. “Ew!”

“You started it!”

His struggling friend grumbles in fruitless fury, puffing up like a frustrated guineapigeon. “Your _face_ started it.”

Panto chuckles, though sets aside his mirth to graciously wipe off Silas’ palm on his own sleeve. And in doing so surveys his knuckles, still red raw, and finds himself squeezing his fingers in reflexive compassion. That big dumb meanie. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t just- why did Silas even _have_ to learn to fight? He’d sooner run away to live in the woods with the doormice than join any battles. Panto hadn’t always understood that. Back when they first met, he could at times be as dense as the Lady Dengdamor herself. But nowadays, having been granted permission to know Silas in a way few could boast, he thinks perhaps it’s one of his favourite things. He can see the bravery in being peaceful; the virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Silas wouldn’t hurt a fly- not even a feral one!

Sadly, that doesn’t mean others won’t hurt _him_. Simply that he won’t fight their mistreatment like he should. But that’s alright, too.

That’s what Panto’s here for.

Lifting Silas’ hand again he spies his flinch, as though he expects another slippery lick. But Panto merely folds his fingers and presses gentle kisses to each and every knuckle. _Kissing it better,_ Litzi used to say as she would tend his bumps and scrapes, of which he had many; his reward for throwing himself into situations he ought not to. He imagines he’s too old to be kissed better, now. Silas must be, too, but he needn’t know that.

He chances a glance up, and feels a blush rising on observation of a similar warm colouring in Silas’ cheeks.

Sometimes he looks so very lovely Panto forgets how words work.

“Litzi used to do this,” he blurts, because talking of his sister seems a reliable way to get his mind out of sappy places. “When I got hurt. She said mother used to do it for her, and the task had fallen to her for my sake. She complained about it, all the time, but the lady doth protest too much methinks; I think it made her feel real smug. Made her feel like the big sister. Sometimes, with the way father speaks to her, you’d think _I_ was the elder. I wager she enjoyed reminding me that wasn’t the case.”

“Maybe she just liked to help,” murmurs Silas, eyes downcast to his injury. “I imagine it made _her_ feel better, too. No one likes to see their family hurting. If this ever happened to Farson…”

Panto smiles fondly upon his friend. As the five year-old, _exceedingly_ coddled youngest child of the Dengdamors, Farson seldom finds time or opportunity to injure himself. But he will reach that stage sooner or later, and Silas will surely learn the hard way what it is to be a big brother. As Panto can attest, it changes the way one thinks about things- although Litzi always argues that he was a reckless bobo _long_ before he had someone to dive into trouble for. She may have a point; after all, the absence of that person these last five years has done little to temper his foolhardy nature.

But Silas expresses his affection rather differently than Panto. For Silas, it will be this: soothing words and comforting touches. He’ll be first and foremost a carer. Where Panto will fight battles, Silas will tend wounds. It’s what makes him special. It’s what makes him _Silas._ It’s what gets him bloody knuckles and puffy eyes, what no one else understands.

It’s what Panto loves more than anything else in the world.

“I think she just likes to talk down to me,” says Panto, lovingly. His sister drives him totally looney-toons, but he wouldn’t change her for the whole wide world. He cuddles Silas’ hands to his chest. “But I love how you always think the best of people.”

Silas ducks his head, as always timid in the face of earnest admiration. Oft does he wilt like a shrinking violet in response to praise, though mayhap the response is particular to Panto and Panto alone. Though given that Panto is the only person offering such praise in the first place, it’s a distinction that makes near enough to no difference. Such a sweetly sad reception one never did see. It makes him seem so small, so soft.

It makes Panto want to hold him.

“Oh- Panto!”

So he does.

Nestled perfectly within the crook of Silas’ neck, it’s easy to forget why he put himself there in the first place. He smells like parchment and parrot feathers, rich and warm, welcoming in a manner that puts the very Trost homestead to shame. And… and maybe a little musty. But not bad! Never bad. It’s wonderful. Touching Silas, being close to him, it always is.

And when Silas, with reservations put finally to bed, returns the embrace, it only gets better.

Panto breathes deeply the rich comfort of their proximity, smiling foolishly into into Silas’ skin. “I do cry when I get hurt, you know.”

“All the time?”

“Sometimes,” Panto amends, eyes drifting closed. “Like the time I was bitten by a vampire bat. I was so very certain it would turn me into a vampire myself! I cried the night through ‘til sun up.”

Silas laughed, breathy with incredulity. _“Really?”_

“Yes! And the time I hurt my back scaling the whistling willow by the creek. I thought I’d never climb again! I was so frightened, I cried for _weeks.”_

“No way!”

“Way!” Panto clings to Silas’ shirt with needy fingers and a bashful smile that he buries in his collar, heart hopping like a hare in his chest. “And yet here I am, climbing a tree every day just to see your face. I think maybe some things are never as bad as you think they are.”

He feels Silas’ hand tracing circles on his back, fingers dancing across it like skipping stones in time to the hippity hop of his happy heart. “Yeah. I think you may be right…”

 

**~II~**

 

“Right- _ah,_ yes, right there,” Panto breathes, light as a breeze. “I don't know what sorcery you hold in your hands, sweet, but colour me bewitched.”

“No sorcery, my love,” Silas smiles, hands fanning out to grasp and knead Panto’s tense shoulder muscles. “I simply learned a long time ago that a soft touch can go a long way.”

Panto turns his head slightly, handsome profile stark against the pillow as he regards Silas with that sly twinkle in his eye that ofttimes spells distraction for them both. “And is this a discovery you made on your own? In the dead of night, perchance?”

And with his face pressed into this very pillow to keep himself quiet, lest he set himself up for an embarrassing conversation on the morrow? Yes, actually. And Panto very well knows it,  which surprisingly makes playing coy all the more entertaining. “No. I just figured out animals bite you less if you treat them nice, doofus. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends; any book will tell you that.”

“Far be it for me to cast aspersions on your character, your Highness,” says Panto, tongue staunchly planted in cheek. “I'm sure you entertained only the most _intellectual_ pursuits in your adolescence.”

“Every night,” Silas agrees, lips pursed against the rising laughter. “As I'm sure you did.”

“Yes- and every morning come to think of it,” says Panto, serene in his conversational flirtation.”Sometimes on slow afternoons in the hayloft. Such a comfortable place to read on a summer’s day you never did see.”

“I know- I've ‘read’ with you in it many times.”

“Relaxing, isn't it?”

“With the right literature.”

“Oh, I know well what ‘literature’ you favour, my love. Let’s see; careful exposition, a slowly unfolding plot and a dramatic, pacy climax?”

Silas blushes red to the tips of his ears. “Something like that. A well-crafted story deserves appreciation.”

“Oh, verily. Though I suppose, on occasion, you prefer to skip the suspense all together and dive right into the action.”

“On occasion.”

Panto smirks, witchcraft in his lips and eyes glittering with promise of ‘stories’ to come. “Me too.”

See? Distraction.

Silas dismisses his seamless seduction with a breathy laugh and a shake of his head. “But not tonight,” he says with integrity, working his hands meticulously into Panto’s knotted muscles, noting with satisfaction the second his body yields into complete and utter pliancy under his touch. “Tonight we take our time.”

“Until the sun rises and the birds sing, love,” Panto practically purrs, arching blissful and catlike into Silas’ touch.

 _Ah,_ sunrise. He always _loves_ to see Panto painted in the vibrant hues of sunrise, pink and gold all over. It brings his natural colouring forth, saturates it, dresses him in daydreams. It suits him down to the ground, given that he himself entered Silas’ life as a sunrise breaks a bleak and endless night. Dazzlingly dawning, just as the idea dawns on Silas as he surveys the acres and acres of pale, silken skin at his fingertips.

“Panto,” he murmurs, breathing the word across his neck at the heels of a kiss pressed to the nape. “Don’t move.”

“I have no plans to,” Panto remarks in bemusement.

Beaming beatifically, Silas snares a rag from the tray and with it dabs at the oil on Panto’s back. Satisfied with his removal of the thickest globules, he finishes with a final playful swat before slinging aside the rag, leaving Panto to his tickled chortling in order to dive for the corner and his pricklepine trunk.

“Silas?” Panto questions, voice reedy with laughter.

“Shh,” mutters Silas, brows furrowing as he digs determinedly through the disorganised recesses. “I know they're here somewhere…”

He laughs, bright and jubilant when his search yields fruit, reemerging with his prize in hand; the old plumwood box. Hardly what it used to be- the twolips and twirly blooms he painted on the sides so many years ago have begun to peel and fade, losing definition much like his memories of the day he put them there. Perhaps when he's done what he set out to do he'll give them a touch-up.

Panto regards him with a smile that crinkles his eyes; crinkles of mirth and laughter older than his nine and thirty years, joyously earned and honourably worn. “Been a long time since I've seen that.”

It's true, muses Silas as he once more settles and unpacks the various jars and bottles, a veritable apothecary of pigment in his palms. He finds he has precious little time to paint these days, the shirking of royal duties being no easy feat. But when the inspiration strikes, as it has just now with such a lovely canvas spread out before him, he can do nought but pursue. “Lie nice and still,” he says softly, stroking a careful, considering hand down the length of Panto’s back “I’ll try not to take too long.”

“Sweetheart,” Panto breathes, catching his hand before its second stroke and holding it prisoner to the doting caress of his lips. “Take as long as you like- I've nowhere to be but here with you.”

Silas curls his hand around Panto’s a moment, reveling in the warmth and the weight of it, before he sets it down and sets swiftly to work before inspiration fades. It's a cinch to mix the appropriate tones- the rosy hue of Panto’s hair a shade he's had many years of study to perfect. He mixes a swatch of it on his pallet, and surrounds it with an array of lively pinks and luminous yellows; a mottled radial gradient, resplendent as the rosy fingers of dawn. He dots in greens, browns, a sweep of orange, brush and bottles never resting until every inch of the pallet in steeped in rich pigment.

Then, satisfied, he carefully selects an unsullied brush for his purposes. Bestowing upon Panto’s back a final loving caress, he follows the trail of his fingers with a sweep of light brown paint along his husband’s elegant spine.

Though startled by the coolness of the paint, fleeting discomfort shortly melts to understanding as Panto surrenders his rigidity, muscles softening to the whims of Silas’ brush. Defenses dropped and forsaken, for Silas and _only_ Silas.

Delicate and devout, Silas picks a path of a thousand turns across Panto’s skin, drawing out the image in his mind’s eye shape by shape, stroke by stroke. The sweep of brown becomes a slim, elegant tree, standing tall and proud along the strong spine of its bearer. It fans out in crooks and points at the branches, in knots and loops at the roots, to marbled earth and lustrous meadow. To a sky of pale champagne and sweet, fragrant rosé, dusted with fine lilac clouds and the first fragile rays of a rising sun.

The blossoms he leaves until last. As the sun outside begins to set he arms himself with a fine, flat brush, loaded with his most-loved shade of Panto pink, and begins to delicately daub paper-thin petals along the branches in small clusters like ornate bouquets. Some he scatters to the sky, lets them mingle playfully with the trailing lavender vapours. All of them he carefully accentuates- a dash of white here, a dab of magenta there- until he can feel their soft, full volume ready to spring to life at his hands. Until he feels the whisper of his breath could dislodge them from his love’s skin and send them fluttering to the four winds.

Content with every drop of paint and passion bequeathed he halts and surveys his work, falling back upon his heels with an indulgent smile. Some of his careful brushwork is marred by the remaining oil, but it does little to spite him; the opalescent swirls they form in the sky add a touch of character to the scene, a certain magic. Even as the paint dries and loses its shine they remain, ripples on a frozen pond, catching the candlelight.

“Silas?” asks Panto with patience permeated in curiosity. The top branches rustle with the stretch of his neck as he cocks his head in silent question.

Silas follows that uppermost branch, trails his fingers along his love's shoulder with reverence. “All finished.”

“Can I see?”

Silas nods his permission, carefully aiding Panto’s ascent with his hands on his shoulder, then his chest; guiding him to sitting with an eye on the damp paint lest it smudge, bracing him lest he bend and crack the dry. “Careful, love.”

He knows he needn't say it- Panto would never knowingly harm Silas’ work. But Panto offers a reassuring smile and nod nonetheless, covering Silas’ hand on his chest with his own.

Silas ushers him into position, rewarding his compliance with a dainty kiss to his handsome jaw, and stands on legs shaky with disuse to angle the ornate floor-length mirror towards the bed.

Panto’s breath hitches the second his back slides into frame.

“So?” asks Silas gingerly, soft as the hand with which he traces the lean musculature of his husband’s arm. “Do you like it?”

He receives a joyful kiss to his hand in response, shortly to be followed by a tug that draws him into the tight embrace of his beloved. “Love,” murmurs Panto, voice husky with adoration. “I only wish I could keep it there forever.”

“But then I could never paint there again,” Silas reasons, chuckling and pulling his husband's hands to his chest. “And I would miss it, so.”

“I know,” says Panto with affectionate mirth. “Were it not so, I'd search high and low for the ink with which you could mark me for all times, sweet.”

He reaches out to capture Silas’ face in his strong, supple hands. Silas can do nought in love and accord but allow himself to be drawn; and as the vast and empty space betwixt their mouths narrows to next to nothing, allow Panto to breathe his praise across his lips, and in return melt to his ardour like candle wax.

“Oh, Silas; What magic you carry in your fingertips…”

 

**~III~**

 

“-and what knowledge in your head,” Panto enthuses, eyes darting to capture every inch of his love's stunning moonlit face he can. He'd be riveted even if Silas weren't in the midst of an animated tangent about the explosion cycles of baobomb trees. “It's a wonder you can keep your neck straight under the weight of it all.”

Silas eyes him with suspicion. “I feel there was an accusation of nerdiness buried in that compliment.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Panto attests, smartly swallowing Silas’ indignant squawk in a kiss. Brief though it may be, it remains in intimacy uninterrupted as it breaks, Panto holding himself propped on one elbow above his love, nose to nose and nigh on lip to kiss-bit lip. “But you're easily my most favourite nerd in the kingdom.”

Silas blushes oh so prettily in the gentle silver-blue glow, face speckled in the dappled shadows of dancing tree boughs. His hair- longer than it's been in a while, he'll surely be trapped and shorn like a sugar sheep when Nanny Grunthos gets gets ahold of him- bounces soft as smoke over his forehead as they traverse the bumpy forest floor aboard the broad, spongy back of the brass-shelled bedbug.

Panto spares a glance away from Silas- lovely though his sweetheart may be, he'd be remiss if he didn't appreciate the rare close encounter with such a mighty specimen of Wendimoor wildlife. “I never knew they could grow so big,” he says, wonder-struck. The creature they sit astride is as big as his own bed, possibly bigger. Nearly king-sized.

Silas recovers from his surprise and offense posthaste, eyes lighting up as he espies an opportunity to impart his knowledge. “They can get bigger, actually! But they rarely come so close to our settlements- those little ones you find in your bed sometimes tend to be lost. They can't survive on our mattresses, you see. The ones we sleep on have been hunted down and dried out.”

His expression darkens momentarily, merry flame tempered by soulful poignancy. Panto endeavours to chase those blues away with a thumb on his cheek, smiling softly. Always so sensitive, his Silas. Always looking out for the underdog.

Silas, with a wistful smile, tilts his head to pop a kiss to Panto’s palm en voyage to the remains his impromptu lecture.

“Wild bedbugs survive by colonising living mattresses. It doesn't hurt, from what I've heard, but it can make them a bit sick while the bugs are in their system. But once they outgrow that mattress they'll go away and colonise a bigger one. Eventually, when they get big enough, they do what this one's doing- find a willing mattress, pick it up, and carry it on its back for the rest of its life. See, they have a sim-bee-ottick-” he shapes the word uncertainly, undoubtedly one he’s only read and never heard, but he tries his best and Panto knows not enough to question him- “relationship. The bedbug feeds on the mattress’ nutrients, just like always, but in return it defends the mattress from predators and helps it reach high branches for food. If their relationship is good, neither of them will ever go hungry or sick again!”

“Sounds like a wonderful life,” says Panto, serenely regarding the brilliant boy.

“It’s certainly a simple one,” Silas agrees, petting the mattress fondly. It emits a series of contented, floopy burbles in response. “Just the two of them, wandering the forests. No places to be, no people to please. Just each other, forever.”

“It does sound peaceful,” says Panto, molding himself to Silas. “I could certainly get used to this quietude.”

He feels Silas’ nimble fingers touch his hair, card carefully through the long, loose strands as though he were teasing the tangles with a silver comb. Panto feels like he's moments away from burbling like the mattress. “Me too,” Silas breathes, chest depressing beneath Panto’s ear.

It’s far too easy to melt into the moment like sticky syrup, clinging to Silas’ every curve and contour. To immerse himself in the tranquility of the rambling woods and forget, for a blissful, indescribable moment, that there’s anywhere they’re supposed to be but right here with each other. That there’s anyone who would take this moment away from them.

Panto clings tighter to the warm body beneath him, fingers tangling in the fine silk of Silas’ waistcoat. “Maybe we could just stay here…” he says faintly. Ashamedly. He knows he shouldn’t be thinking it, knows it’s not possible and it’s cruel to both of them to entertain the idea. Knows that he’d never follow it through, not when his people die in battle on his very homestead, not when each of their families suffer at the hands of the other.

But sometimes it’s nice to pretend.

“Maybe,” Silas whispers, voice carried away on the breeze. “These two seem happy to have us- perhaps we could stay with them, go as far as they’ll carry us. Who knows where we might find ourselves?”

“We could see the world,” says Panto, turning his face to the evening sky. The moon grins down at them, a knowing twinkle in his eye. Sometimes, Panto is sure that he’s listening, watching over the people and finding his entertainment in the lives of others. Other times, less charitably, he concludes that they must appear to him as ants to an elephant. He wonders if it’s a lonely life- do the stars keep him company, or just hang in silence by his side? Do they converse, or gossip? Is it those stars, high above their heads, that govern their conditions? Are they close? Do they fight amongst themselves, a war in the stars to mirror the unrest on the ground?

Jiminy _crickets_ , spending time with Silas is filling him with all sorts of daffy daydreams. The boy’s curiosity is truly infectious.

“We could ski down the Marshmallow Mountains,” says Silas, skating his fingers in a sinuous curve down Panto’s spine as if in emulation of his feet on the frosty slopes.

“Or go digging for treasure on the Rainbow Coast,” Panto suggests. “I hear the merfolk shed the most beautiful scales, in every colour you can imagine.”

Silas laughs, incredulous. “Why, Panto. I had no idea you were so fond of pretty things.”

It’s a familiar tease. Silas loves to trace his work-calloused fingers, unknot the combat-stiffened muscles of his back, and remind him all the while that he’s a big old softie wuss.

Panto raises his head, and then his eyebrow, peering at Silas with a devilish smirk. “Obviously,” he says, a guiding finger beneath Silas’ chin to bring his face to the light. “You don’t think I keep you around for that big old brain of yours, do you, beautiful?”

Silas smacks his chest amidst buoyant, bashful laughter. It makes his cheeks dimple in the most delightful of ways. “Please. I _know_ you keep me around for my animal facts.”

The next kiss Panto bestows upon him is met with breathy giggles, slender hands cupping Panto’s jaw with fondness as he allows himself to be playfully, amorously silenced.

It’s all dizzy dreaming, of course. Ludicrous fancies of a world where they can afford to leave everything behind; where they have no families, no duties, no turbulent kingdoms to hold together with their fingertips. Where they can survive on nought but each other, and cut themselves off from all else with no guilt, no repercussions. In their dreams, they could lead a charmed life out in the wilderness. But reality is seldom so kind.

Besides, Panto muses, as thoughts of his father and Litzibitz and Silas’ big-eyed, bumbling little brother present themselves, it might be naive to think they could be truly happy with nought but each other. Though he would not wish any companion in the world but Silas, loneliness is an ugly, sharp thing; they would both surely succumb to it eventually.

Silas, pulling back with a mournful sigh, meets Panto’s eyes with such bone-deep understanding it’s as if he can see his thoughts in his eyes. With Silas, words are rarely a necessity, only pretty embellishment.

“It’s not possible, is it,” he says, though it isn’t a question. Just quiet confirmation.

Panto slumps back down beside him with a forlorn facsimile of a smile. “No. I think not.”

Silas’ eyes turn searchingly to the skies. A thousand constellations illuminate his face through the trees, igniting countless galaxies in his dark, dark eyes.

“Do you know what happens? When the mattress dies?”

He keeps his voice low, away from the innocent ears of their scuttling steed and its springy rider. Panto looks at him, curious despite his certainty that there will be no happy ending to this lesson, and shakes his head.

When Silas smiles, it’s with the sadness of a thousand goodbyes. “The bedbug stays. It’s a life bond, you see. When one dies, the other waits for their turn, always by their side. One without the other… it’s too much loneliness for any creature to take. There is nothing else, no one else. They have nothing more to live for, and nowhere to be but by the other’s side.”

He looks to Panto, and it’s not just the stars shining in his eyes anymore, the shimmer of unshed tears glazing them in sorrow. “I don’t want that to be us, Panto.”

Panto presses his palm to Silas’ face, traces his single polished green fingernail down his cheek. “It won’t be, love. We are not alone. _You_ are not alone.”

“And nor are you,” breathes Silas, catching the hand and pressing a kiss to the palm like a promise. “You have your family, your people, and so do I. If we simply leave…”

“We have no one,” Panto agrees, though reluctant. “No one but each other.”

Silas looks at him, and though his eyes remain ashine with unshed tears they burn incandescent in fierce determination.“I would never leave you.”

“I know. Nor I you.”

“But… you need more than just me,” says Silas, resting his forehead against Panto’s, mind to weary mind. “And I more than you, though my heart aches just to say it.”

“Just as mine aches to hear it,” says Panto, breathing deep of the warm, dry scent of Silas as it envelopes him. Truly, his love is wise beyond his years. Seems only yesterday they were both mere children, playing in the woods without a care for the ludicrous politics of the grown-ups. By rights, he feels, they should be children still, both still some years shy of twenty and no closer to understanding the bad blood handed down from their parents like family jewels. Sadly, such innocence is a luxury neither can afford. “But I understand.”

Silas smiles his secret smile; known only to Panto, shown only at peace. Soft as a whisper, sweet as a promise. “I love you.”

Panto’s heart does a tap dance in his chest as he smiles his own secret smile for Silas- bright as the sun and light as a summer breeze. “I love you, too.”

Perhaps this is but a brief respite from the turmoil and bloodshed. Perhaps they will both wake up tomorrow, in separate beds, this night a secret they keep in their hearts to warm them on cold, lonely nights when they may as well be half the world away.

But perhaps that’s what makes these moments truly precious.

All the same, it matters not now. Not now he has his love in his arms, a warm weight of kindness and familiarity. Not now Silas is off on a tangent again; his attention caught by a passing raindeer as its snowy white tail and luminous red nose flit through the trees, and his mouth and brain running to catch up with all the trivia it can dig up. He never has to dig far, the facts coming as easily to him as breathing. Panto watches him fondly, his thumb tracing circles on Silas’ neck as his throat bobs with his excitable babbling. Watches the smile on his lips and the light in his eyes.

Wonders how it’s possible that one boy can shine brighter than all the stars in the sky.

He smiles, tucking his face into Silas’ neck as he rambles. Allowing himself to feel at peace a moment. To feel calm, and quiet and-

 

**~IV~**

 

“-Safe, Panto, Panto you’re- you’re safe now! It’s alright!”

But his words don’t seem to hold any weight. Panto struggles, blindly fighting an invisible assailant and succeeding only in tangling himself further into the clinging sheets. Hoarse, guttural whimpers are all Silas receives by way of response to his pleas, and something tells him those sounds aren’t meant for his ears.

Silas blinks back tears, hands wringing the sheets. The night terrors again. First one in almost six months- he’d been doing so _well_ , sleeping like a logleech. And now he gets the worst he’s had in years, just when he’d been beginning to exhale, beginning to believe that perhaps those old wounds were finally healed.

Perhaps some never will.

Silas shakes his head and clenches his jaw, resolute. Now was not the time to be a Debbie Downer. His husband needs him.

“Panto,” he says once more, resolve belying the tremor in his voice. “Panto, it’s alright. I’m here.”

Yet still no response, lost to the twist of a tormented mind.

Though he knows how to proceed, Silas blanches in misgiving. He’d been fearful of waking him the first few times this happened. He’d heard it could hurt people, like waking sleepwalkers, and fretted intensely on the possibility of causing further harm. But Panto assured him that it was alright; that it was what he needed. That he trusted him. He was the only person to ever witness him at his weakest, after all. Not even his beloved sister was privy to this stage of his life, to night terrors more severe than childhood dreams of monsters under the bed. Such trivialities no more held power; Panto had far more pressing things to fear.

And if Silas doesn’t wake him now, he’ll swelter in that fear ‘til sunrise.

With the practised ease of a thousand experiences he sets to work, handling Panto with the utmost care as he trails his hands over his face, down his neck. He takes a hold of his shoulders and squeezes, bracing against panicked thrashing as he carefully brackets Panto’s restless body with his own. Soothing, stroking as he leans in close, close enough to feel Panto’s frantic breaths upon his own cheek.

 _“Panto,”_ he says, soft and steady as a vow. “Wake up, my love.”

His husband wakes with a broken whimper and eyes alight with tears as they flicker open; even in the gloom they shine with sorrow and confusion as they regard Silas.

It takes a long, heartbreaking moment for recognition and relief to settle in them.

“Silas,” Panto chokes, and it’s the last Silas sees of those eyes before they’re squeezed shut against his chest, Panto’s body arching off the bed to nestle desperately into his own. “Oh, _Silas,_ I- I thought I’d lost you-”

“It’s alright, love,” whispers Silas into Panto’s sweat-tousled hair, wishing he could imprint the words directly upon his troubled brain. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

Panto speaks no more. He seldom does, residual sorrow and fear scaling his throat and taking residence within. He confided in Silas, once, eyes downcast and cheeks stained pink with shame, that sometimes in these moments he fears that if he opens his mouth he’ll have not the power to halt the screams, and not the strength to stop once he’s begun. So Silas lets him keep his mouth and eyes shut, his face dug into Silas’ chest as he latches onto the evidence of his heartbeat to anchor himself in the waking world, and remains steadfastly silent as the quick, heavy breaths turn to shaking sobs.

Silas worked out long ago that the stories told to ease his nerves in his youth were mere fiction; Panto does not cry, no matter the hardship. Twas a revelation that irked and concerned him upon discovery; worry that Panto’s stalwartness would only bottle up pains that they might haunt him another day. Though sometimes, he must admit, twas mere selfish self-consciousness that gave him doubts; perhaps he was simply jealous that Panto knew how to handle his feelings in a manner appropriate to a man. Verily, had Silas’ mother not harboured such hatred towards the Trosts, she would have liked Panto immensely in their childhood. Had he been her own son, without a doubt she would have favoured him. But not once did Panto mock Silas, never once to make him feel small or weak for wearing his heart upon his sleeve. Panto’s held his stoicism not as a badge of honour but as a fact of life; twas not in the nature or the upbringing of Trosts to cry. It was all he had ever known, and when his mother and brothers had left he had coped in the only way he knew how; with paper smiles and unruly behaviour. Oh, the stories Litzibitz had to tell. Many would have been amusing, had they not saddened Silas to his core. Often Panto had said in jest that no Trost was born with tear ducts, and Silas had laughed and squeezed his hand for he could peer beneath the facade and know, without question, when it was needed. He would always know, and tears or no he would be there for his love until the day he died.

And then one day, twenty years ago, he did.

Well. He supposes he _didn’t,_ in the end. When the rightful king returned, he restored all who lost their lives in the war. But even to this day the memories remain, a shadow on their happily ever after.

Silas was lucky, he supposes. For him, it was all over in a heartbeat; barely a word out of his mouth before the squareboys were firing their weapons of death, those metal pellets burrowing into his chest faster than he could blink. Nothing but the death rattle of the boomsticks, the roar of blood in his ears, ground at his back, sun in his eyes, pain like he’d never felt and then… nothing. Nothing until later, how much later he’s never been sure, when he woke to his own bed and not a scratch to be found, though the mental scars of those gaping wounds would forever remain engraved upon his chest. Such agony he’d never felt nor would ever feel again, but it was quick, and the last he saw as he slipped away was the blazing sun and the grinning moon.

For Panto, the last he saw was Silas.

He spoke only once of that fateful moment. Late one night, five years since that bleak, bloody day. Pressed together in the dark, hands in clothes, lips on skin, hair twined in soft, petting fingers, he’d told him everything he remembered. Everything that came back to haunt his nightmares, sometimes several times a week. Of Silas’ face as the pain took hold, of the sound of his body hitting the floor, of Panto’s own hand reaching out too late, barely sparing a thought for the agony of his own death as he watched his love’s lifeblood spill to the sun-parched dirt.

 _“My love,”_ he’d breathed, words curling in the air like frosty dragon smoke. _“The pain of dying was nothing, nothing to the pain of losing you. My heart was broken long before my body.”_

He’d spoken the next part as if ashamed, voice heavy with guilt. _“We always swore we wouldn’t be bedbugs, dear, but… in that moment I felt only relief. A life without you would have been no life I’d want to live. Where you are, there is world itself, and where you are not… desolation. I’d have lain down beside you had they not put me there themselves. I hope you’ll forgive me…”_

That night was the first in which Panto didn’t rise and leave in the wake of his nightmares, didn’t go for a walk to collect himself. Instead he remained, heart and soul bared in the safety of Silas’ arms, and wept. Openly, brokenly, for the first time as Silas bore witness, though he knew in that moment that it was not the only time since that day. Oh, how his heart ached to think of the other times; always alone, a ghostly figure wandering the halls, a spirit in turmoil as he lost himself in the winding corridors of the Dengdamor palace or the vast candy corn fields of the farmlands. How long it had taken to let down his walls, even to Silas.

How long to realise that there was no shame in crying.

_“There’s nothing to forgive, my love.”_

Silas enfolds Panto in his arms, pouring every ounce of love he has into the embrace. Every last little shred. Traces it in little spirals at the nape of his neck because what Panto wants, what he _needs_ , is to be touched. Held. Loved, simply, silently, unconditionally. He'll glue himself back together eventually- and Silas will hold the pieces until he does. They simply must be patient; what wound did ever heal but by degrees? He knows how this works, now. Knows Panto inside and out, warts and all.

Without prompting, without halt or hesitation, he presses lightly upon Panto’s clammy neck and in doing so locks his distressfully twitching torso against his own. His other hand he worms betwixt their bodies, a pacifying palm flattened atop Panto’s racing heart; a token of protection, shielding the beautiful thing from further harm as he wishes he could have all those years ago. It’s what Panto needs. To feel protected, loved, _known_ in the most intimate of ways.

 _I see you,_ Silas tells him with his hands, with his heart. _And I love you._

 

**~V~**

 

“I can see you, you know.”

“Hmm?” mumbles Silas in false innocence, hand rubbing loose yet meaningful circles on Panto’s chest.

Chuckling with drowsy mirth, Panto tilts his head to glance at his husband over his shoulder. “Stealth is not your forte, my dear. Nor is distraction.”

“I know not what you speak of, love.”

“Or lying, for that matter.”

“Very well, maybe I _am_ lying: in this bed, with you. Exactly where we ought to be.”

“Darling, we cannot stay in bed _all_ day.”

Fortunately, Panto remains immune to the full effect of Silas’ pretty pouting with his back turned. “I mean, strictly speaking we _can._ It’s not as if there’s any higher power in the land to order us around.”

“What about the king?”

“I’m sure he has more interesting things to do.”

“Than see us?” Panto responds with a gasp of dramatic affront. “No way!”

“Way,” says Silas, nestling decisively into Panto’s back as his hand presses in a little harder, continuing its slow, teasing sweep. “And so do we.”

“Oh?” But of course he already knows where this is going- Silas has his tried and tested methods, and Panto nearly a decade of marriage to learn his tactics. This is undoubtedly a slippery slope to hot blood, hot thoughts, hot deeds. If he were any kind of responsible noble, he might be tempted to put a stop to it.

But it _is_ rather early...

Upon relinquishing his hold on Panto’s chest, Silas does not cease but rather but allows his hand to roam; ponderously he explores with his fingers, dallying at Panto’s waist, his abdomen and naval, tracing the fine pink line of hair down to the coarse thatch at his groin. “Silas…” Panto turns his nose and his breathless chuckle into the pillow.

“Yes, my love?” asks Silas, voice light with inexpertly feigned nonchalance as he begins to softly, slowly comb his fingers through it.

“You can’t-” his breath and his words hitch as Silas’ fingertips brush his flaccid member on one of their passes. “You can’t just seduce me every time you want to sleep in, you know.”

He can feel Silas’ smile pressed upon his shoulder. “I’ll stop doing it when it stops working.”

‘Tis with little more than a huff that Panto settles back into the warmth of his lover behind him. He has no desire to offer any more resistance to this course of action. “If your subjects only knew how wicked you are, my love,” he teases with a roll of his hips slowly into Silas’ hand. “Such underhanded sexual blackmail, all for the sake of your beauty sleep. Scandalous.”

“You'll never tell them,” says Silas with confidence, pressing a kiss beneath his ear. “You've worked too hard to defend my honour than to besmirch it yourself.”

“See?” Panto smiles, rolling over to breathe his next words across his husband's provocative lips. “ _Devious.”_

The kiss is slow, slumberous in greeting and promise; deep and unhurried and so profoundly comforting it would be easy to succumb once more to sleep beneath it. But the steady, insistent tug of his love's hand on his length keeps him anchored in the moment, wakened by the low, spicy simmer in his blood.

"And how will you be having your wicked way this morning, my sweet?" murmurs Panto, fingers dancing across the captivating bronze expanse of his husband's flank as he continues to devour his lips in earnest. **  
****  
**"However your heart desires," says Silas, with a gleam of mirth in his eye. "So long as I don't have to move." **  
****  
**An enticing invitation, to be certain, and one with many a pleasurable outcome; though such charming allurement comes as mere flimsy pretext for laziness. Panto tut-tuts, carefully pushing Silas onto his back and half climbing on top of him. "Very well. But you'd best not fall asleep, I'm not certain my ego could take it." **  
****  
**"I'm sure it could handle it," Silas teases- just as he teases the head of Panto's cock with his thumb. "A touch of humility might even do you some good. Modest doubt is not called the beacon of the wise for nought, after all."  
  
"Perhaps. But if I'm forced to relinquish the title of finest lover in Wendimoor because you can't keep your eyes open, I'll be _most_ perturbed."  
  
"No one _gave_ you that title, dumb dumb." **  
****  
**" _You_ did- you remember, that night out on the Luna Lagoon, in the kayak, with the chocolate strawberries-"  
  
Silas kisses him into silence, smiling wide against his mouth. "Alright, I did," he concedes.  "But seeing as you've lain only with me-" **  
****  
**"And you only with me," adds Panto, not even attempting to hide his pleasure in the knowledge as he runs a hand softly, possessively across his husband's chest.  
  
"-I hardly think it's a fair competition," Silas concludes, pecking Panto's cheek sweetly in punctuation to his reason. "Face it, dearest- I'm in no position to judge, nor you to _be_ judged." **  
****  
**"It's too early for that big brain to be working so hard, love," Panto chides, popping a kiss to his temple. "Besides, I have no need of your scientific mumbo jumbo- I happen to believe you and I make love better than anyone else in the land. Don't you?"  
  
"That's the point, I don't _know_ -"  
  
"I know you don't _know_ , but what do you _believe_?" **  
****  
**Silas looks on him with the sweetest, warmest eyes, cheeks rich and pink in the morning sun and lip bitten against frolicsome laughter. "That we're the best."  
  
"Darn tootin’." **  
****  
**Panto kisses him in eager reward, mapping his lips and tongue in careful strokes as his hands do likewise ‘cross his languorous body; counting the bumps of his ribs, tracing his contours, cupping his rear and feeling it flex off the bed in covetous response. He chuckles lightly, nudging their noses together in amorous whimsy.  
  
"If you really don't want to move," he says, grinning as the nudge of his knee between Silas’ thighs prompts the rut of needy hips and a hard length against it. "I'd suggest making yourself comfortable." **  
**  
He can't help but guffaw at the speed with which Silas rolls over, smacking Panto's leg aside with his own and flopping bodily onto his side, shuffling his back against Panto's front with an inviting rock of his hips. "There. Nice and comfy."  
  
"Well, that was... energetic."

Silas fake-yawns to keep the pretense.

 _A truly ridiculous man I married,_ muses Panto with a snicker of amusement as he reaches across Silas for the little box on his bedside table, fingers easily locating the small bottle of oil within. He holds the bottle in front of Silas, a question. Silas nods, tilts his head back against Panto's chest, breathes out slow and content as Panto flicks open the stopper and drizzles some of the contents onto his fingers. **  
****  
**When he runs those fingers, warm and slick around the ring of puckered muscle at Silas' entrance, he quite forgets what he was laughing about.  
  
Sometimes, Panto thinks he could just live forever like this. The teasing, the intimacy,  the playful exploration of his body. He could spend days on end pleasuring Silas with just his fingers just to see the look on his face, hear the little sighs and desperate whimpers. Just to watch the sinuous curve of his body, lent a certain uncharacteristic grace in his pursuit of release as he works himself back onto whatever Panto will give him. **  
****  
**Of course, he knows by now that Panto will give him anything. Everything. But there's something titillating about the sense of tension when they both pretend not to. **  
****  
** Panto makes quick but thorough work of preparing Silas, working him open with steady strokes until he has room to spare around two fingers, thumb lightly probing at the rim. He used to spend considerably longer at this, delve and tease until Silas was a quivering mess, open and loose and so slick he could scarcely find purchase with his fingers. Now, though, he knows both their bodies, how they fit, knows precisely when enough is enough; a souvenir of each and every loving year shared, every expression of physical devotion since the first twenty year-old fumble in the dark; more well-loved and familiar to him now than the hilt of his own very blade.

Speaking of which…

Smirking at his own double entendre, Panto slicks his own length with oil before carefully setting the trusty bottle aside. In the space of another two strokes he is guiding himself to Silas’ entrance, pausing with the tip nestled at the rim as he whispers across the shell of his ear: “Yes?”

 _“Yes,”_ Silas’ consents, sweet and soft as a summer breeze.

Pressing a kiss behind his lovely ear Panto removes his fingers, braces his hand upon Silas’ hip, and slides in with a single, fluid thrust.

Almost immediately Silas’ head tilts back, coming to rest on Panto’s shoulder with a gasp of pleasure. Panto, seated deeply and perfectly, echoes; his hips still but a moment as they both appreciate the closeness, the sensation, the sense of completion that comes with being joined in body as well as soul.

And then, after allowing a moment for both to adjust and collect themselves, he presses his hand down upon Silas’ abdomen to steady him and begins to roll his hips in the easy, lethargic motion that he knows Silas loves to wake up to.

Silas sighs, body going lax and pliant beneath Panto’s hands as he gives himself over to his hold, his touch, the gentle push and pull. Some days he likes to take charge, to climb on top, to arc and buck and writhe as he wrings wave upon wave of pleasure from them both. Today it would seem he is content let the slow undulations of Panto’s hips do the work; content to let Panto chase his own release, safe in the knowledge that he won't be left behind.

Panto curves inwards as he etches kisses along Silas’ back, shoulders, every inch of skin he can reach, and quietly laments the fact that he’s had not the time to apply his lip stain this morning. He always delights in Silas’ flawless skin blossoming with pink marks like delicate petals. Loves to see impressions of himself, of the ways in which they are forever intertwined painted tenderly across his back like a signature, caresses flowing free as ink from a quill.

A hand cups his face, a thumb tracing thoughtful circles on his jaw. “Love,” says Silas knowingly. “I can hear you thinking…”

Panto laughs, kissing that hand- palm, heel, wrist. “Just musing, sweetheart.”

“Then muse out loud,” says Silas with a smile as inviting as the arch of his body. “Let me hear your voice.”

“I was just thinking,” Panto breathes, voice fraying at the edges as Silas’ motion draws him in and buries him to the hilt. “What a pity it is that I haven't any lipstick with which to paint you.” He adorns Silas’ neck with a swift, cheeky kiss in demonstration. “A pity to see the loveliest canvas in the land so unmarked.

He draws out, slow and deliberate, and then rocks back in faster, enveloping himself swiftly in Silas’ familiar tight heat- and, if Silas’ answering whine is any indication, burying himself _just right._ He smiles, satisfied, and repeats the motion with a hand splayed across Silas’ soft belly to hold him still, a captive audience to Panto’s playful, tender attentions. Just the way they both like it.

"That's-  _ah_ \- my thing," admonishes Silas, reaching back to clench a hand in Panto's hair, powerless to do anything else. "I do the painting."  
  
"Oh, it wouldn't be as good as yours," says Panto, pressing a little kiss to Silas' taut wrist. "But I can't say the idea isn't tempting. You look so pretty in pink..." **  
**  
"Dearest," says Silas sweetly, releasing Panto's hair and allowing his hand to go on a tour of his body. When he finds his buttock he squeezes it playfully, finger darting out to circle his entrance, and Panto can't help but shiver in response. "I _know_ I do." **  
**  
Panto grins, gleeful as he rocks back into Silas’ questing hand. "Innuendo! You've been practicing." **  
****  
**"Couldn't let you have all the fun," Silas quips, using his hand for leverage as he grinds back, needily seeking friction. Rather _actively_ seeking friction, in fact.  
  
"Ah, finally waking up, are we?" Panto teases, redoubling his efforts to keep his lover pinned with strong hands on Silas’ hips barring any movement. "About time you joined the proceedings." **  
****  
** " _Panto_ ," he whines, delectably thwarted and deliciously wanton.

"Yes?" says Panto, all innocence. He always loves it when the tables turn- loves when one of them leaves the other a gasping, needy, panting mess, never knowing who it will be. **  
****  
**"I- I need-"  
  
"Shh," murmurs Panto, eyes closing. "I know..."  
  
He always knows. He can read it his body, his breathing, the patterns so familiar to him now he could anticipate them in his sleep. He can feel Silas tipping towards the edge, and he can feel himself ready to follow him over.  
  
He just needs one last. Little. Push.  
  
"Come on, love," he says, hand tracing the well-memorised path, wrapping loosely around Silas' length, twisting his wrist _just so_. "I've got you... Just-"

 

**~VI~**

 

" _-there_! Yes, just- _ah_ \- there, again, _please_."  
  
A part of Silas wants to silence himself, keep the messy tumble of pleading encouragements in. Even now, muddled with euphoria, he has it in him to feel self-conscious of his noise, his neediness, his possibly rather unmanly squeaks and whines.  
**  
**But it's the first time he's been touched this way by another, first time chasing this high without the help of his own hand. Another person's hand was a whole new experience, and whole new adventure. Another person's _mouth_ is downright revelatory.  
**  
**Add in the fact that the mouth belongs to _Panto Trost_ , and it therein lies the recipe for total incoherence.  
  
" _Silas_ ," says Panto brokenly, only releasing him from his mouth long enough to breathe the word into his slick, hypersensitive skin before he's diving back to peppering Silas' length with hot, hungry kisses. Any embarrassment Silas feels about looking down his own naked body is snuffed out by the mere sight of his desperation. His plump, kiss-pink lips traverse the hard, hot length of his cock, without a shred of his usual finesse as if he can't wait to claim every inch of skin he can find. His jewel-like eyes are hooded and glazed, his fine rosy hair clumped and tousled with unmistakable impressions of Silas’ fists. He looks the least put-together that Silas has ever seen, rakish smirks and dancerly grace abandoned by the wayside in pursuit of more, more, _more_. Like he can't get enough. Like he's been waiting for this, _burning_ for this, every bit as long as Silas has been. **  
**  
"Panto, I'm going- I'm nearly-"  
  
He'd been hoping to get the words out, give Panto fair warning, but he'd overestimated how much control he had or perhaps just how quickly Panto could take him apart. **  
****  
**The sensation is familiar, the sudden crescendo and the convulsive release of tension, but somehow different; amplified by his heightened arousal and stretched out to the point of over sensitivity by the continued touches, by the mouth and hands that aren't his own working along his length even past the moment of surrender.  
  
He clamps his eyes shut, head falling back against the blankets in exhaustion, limp and overwrought and _still_ the sensations chase him. Hot kisses, hot touches, Panto never ceasing as if he were content to live about his waist. Too hot. "Panto," he rasps, hands fisting in the sheets. "Too much,  I-" **  
****  
**All of a sudden the pressure is gone and he can hear the creak of the bed, feel the weight of a body as Panto crawls over him. "Sorry," comes the hushed response, followed by contrite kisses and kitten-licks to his throat and feverish cheeks. **  
**  
"S'okay," he mumbles, eyes drifting open in a daze. He meets Panto's eyes, wide and worried beneath the heady glaze of lust, and feels hot embarrassment twist in his stomach at the pale, sticky splatter of come painting his cheek. "Really, I- I'm sorry, you didn't- I can-" **  
****  
**"Shh," says Panto atop the softest of kisses to his lips. Silas whimpers as he tastes hanging on them a salty, earthy tang that can only be himself. "It's okay, _I'm_ sorry, just... are you alright?"  
  
Silas nods, sighing as his eyes drift once more to a close and Panto's lips trail down to his throat. "Yes. Yes, I am, it just- it was _wonderful_ , and then all of a sudden too much and- I'm alright, I just, I need a moment." **  
****  
**"Of course," whispers Panto into the crook of Silas' shoulder.  
  
"I can still-" Silas offers, hand trailing over Panto's thigh, edging nervously towards where he's still evidently hard against his hip. Panto intercepts him, gently putting the hand and the offer to bed. **  
**  
"Don't worry, love," says Panto softly, keeping their hands twined up by Silas’ head as he anchors himself with his forearm. "Taking care of myself is one thing I _am_ experienced in," he adds, voice light in jest. **  
**  
"But-" Silas starts, cheeks burning in guilt, though a soft, chastising nip to his collarbone halts him fast.  
  
"Silas," murmurs Panto, squeezing his hand. "Really, love- having you here with me is _more_ than enough." **  
****  
**Silas steadies himself with a breath as he calms his racing heart, turns his face into Panto's hair and nods his acquiescence. When he opens his eyes it’s to find delicate, pastel waves dancing in his vision. And beyond, the smooth, pale expanse of Panto's shoulders, the right jerking in tight, staccato twitches as he coaxes himself to his own climax. It takes but minute, ending the second he raises his head and meets Silas' gaze. **  
****  
**He gasps, overwhelmed by the look in Panto’s eyes. The love, the trust, the desperation, the heady desire. There's no one word for how he feels as Panto spills onto his stomach, hot and slick. Elated, of course. Exhilarated. Maybe a _little_ grossed out. What? It's weird! This is the sort of thing he tends to wash off himself as quickly as possible- and keep away from the sheets lest the servants who wash them learn what he was doing. What if they laughed at him? What if they told his _mother_ ? Oh, galloping _gumdrops_ , if she knew he'd never- **  
****  
**"Silas?"  
  
He jerks back to the present, to rumpled sheets and cooling release, and blushes because how about picking the _worst possible moment_ to think about his _mother_. "Sorry!" **  
****  
**"Are you... I'm sorry, are you alright?"  
  
Oh, _fudge_ , and now Panto thinks he's done something wrong. Silas is _really_ blowing this. "Yes, I- I am! I really am!"  
  
"Was... was that okay?" **  
**  
He looks so worried, so very _lost_ it causes Silas to double take. Self-conscious is not a look one sees on Panto Trost all that often. "Yes," he says, softer, bringing their still twined hands to his lips to bestow kisses upon Panto's tense knuckles. "It was..." Awkward? A little, yes, but who's fault was that? Panto certainly tried his best, and his best was- "Amazing, actually, I-" he giggles, thick and giddy with the feeling that his mind has a lot of catching up to do with his body. Or is it the other way round? "It was... _fantabulous_." **  
****  
**Panto’s taut expression eases, brows lax as he pulls their hands to his own mouth to return the gesture. "I..." he laughs under his breath with a shake of his rumpled head. "I suppose I... need more practice." **  
**  
" _You_ need more practice?" Silas squawks, smacking his chest. "I just lay here like a... like a log! Like a lump! Like a... like a _sluggersloth_!" **  
****  
**Panto's nervous chuckle turns to a belly laugh, the force of which rolls him onto his back. He falls to the bed beside Silas, taking their knotted hands with him and squeezing them to his fluttering chest as they both lie facing the glittering stars through the skylight (the moon, fortunately, has his eye on some other part of the kingdom tonight). "Silas- that is perhaps the _least_ alluring creature you could have _possibly_ chosen! I think _you_ need to practice your pillow talk."  
**  
**"Ha," Silas teases, head flopping to the side to meet Panto's lovely eyes across the pillow. _"You slept with a slug-ger-sloooooooooth~!"_ **  
**  
Though he jests at his own expense, in his heart the words bear uncommon lightness. For once, he doesn't even remotely _believe_ them. Somehow it's hard to feel undesirable with Panto naked in bed beside him, their combined seed sticking to his stomach. Even though it _sounds_ like it should be gross. Well, the second part. He doesn't think there's _any_ universe where naked Panto would be gross; except perhaps the one where _he's_ the sluggersloth. **  
**  
And he can't help but squeak happily as Panto rolls back on top of him, pestering him with kisses and licks across every inch of his face. Though it hardly feels like pestering when he returns them just as readily.  
**  
**It's but a few minutes later, when a shift of Panto's body gives a sticky tug on the fine hair at his naval, that Silas breaks the cycle of smooching. "Panto," he mumbles, prodding him in the side. "We need to-"  
  
Panto makes a put-upon noise, grabs a corner of the blanket, and wipes it across their bellies like a handkerchief. " _Panto_!" Silas hisses, snatching it away in scandal. "Someone will see-!" **  
****  
**"Don't worry, your highness, I wash my own sheets," teases Panto, reclaiming the blanket to finish the job. "Father always stressed the value of independence. I'll sneak it down when no one's looking." **  
****  
** Silas sighs, sagging. He's glad Panto's thinking ahead, but... He feels heavier, suddenly. The reminder that nothing's ever as easy as it should be is a hard truth to swallow. It's the reason he came here in the first place, stealing into Trost lands after dark, amassing every miniscule ounce of stealth of which he was able to sneak into the windmill Panto calls home. He'd never been more grateful for Panto's insistence on moving a little out of the main farmhouse when he turned sixteen; it had made meeting in secret much easier in the past, though the norm was for Panto to come escort Silas from the border. Tonight he couldn't wait, couldn't bear to go through the whole circus again. Sending a parrot, waiting on a response, arranging their meeting like spies, like fugitives. Winding himself tighter and tighter with every passing tock of the ticker thyme because he can't meet with his lover without feeling like a criminal.

Sometimes he wonders how long they can carry on, bound as they are to ever run before the clock.

A hand finds his chin, tilts it. Blue eyes find his brown, soft and searching.

"I wasn't expecting you tonight," Panto says, barely above a whisper.  
  
"I know."  
  
"Why didn't you send word? I'd have come to-" **  
****  
**"I couldn't. Not again, I..." he sighs, rolling onto his side. Panto mirrors him, their bodies curving together like closed parenthesis as they fall eye to eye, nose to nose, heart to open heart. "I just... I needed to see you. Be with you, I was _suffocating_ and I knew if I could only see you I'd..."  
  
Panto, for once the pattern of all patience, says nothing, thumb tracing gentle circles on Silas' stomach. **  
****  
**"I just... wanted to feel like I could. Just come and see you, that is. No secret notes, no cloak and dagger. Just a boy. Or a man, I suppose, though I still feel like a boy much of the time. Just... just me. Going to see my best friend, my... my _everything_. Just because I can."  
  
He groans, turning his face into the pillow. "Sorry. Sorry, it's silly, I risked everything on a silly whim, I didn't even-"  
  
"Shh, give thy thoughts no tongue; I'm glad you came." **  
****  
**Silas regards him with one eye, black lashes fluttering in his vision and dancing across Panto's shadowed face like spidergrass. **  
****  
**"I was... thinking about you," continues Panto, eyes fixed on Silas' stomach, on his own hand as he traces the curve of it. "The sky looked so clear through my window, all the stars out to play, and I wished you could be there to see them with me. And then suddenly you _were_ , and I..." he chuckles sheepishly, ducking his head. "Well, you know what happened next. But in my defence, I was _really_ happy to see you." **  
****  
**Silas snorts, wrapping his arms around his stomach. "I was happy to see you, too."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
Silas blinks, befuddled. "What ever for?" **  
****  
**"This... wasn't what I planned," says Panto, abashed. "I always imagined the first time we made love I would... I wanted it to be special."  
  
"It was!" Silas hesitates, stomach dropping. "...wasn't it?" **  
**  
"Of course! Yes! It was, I just- I'm sorry, I meant... I wanted to make it better. For you. I had a plan in place and everything- candles and roses, in every shade of green you could imagine. A picnic, perhaps, away from everyone." He gazes at Silas with wide, remorseful eyes. "I feel I've been remiss in my gentlemanly duties, and now you're in my bed and I didn't woo you into it..." **  
****  
**Oh, the absolute _fool_. Charming, handsome, old-fashioned, ridiculous bobo fool. "Panto," says Silas seriously, prodding his chest. "Do you think I'd be lying here if I hadn’t been thoroughly wooed? I think we crossed that bridge a long time ago."  
  
"But-" **  
**  
"And besides, who's to say _I_ didn't do some romancing?" Silas adds, blushing. It's bold, certainly for him, but then so was coming here tonight. For once, he feels like Panto; fearless. "Perhaps I'm the charming scoundrel who enticed you into bed and ruined your plans. Ever consider that?" **  
****  
**Panto raises his eyebrow, an impish smirk playing about his lips. "Well," he says, drawing out the word as he drapes an arm across Silas' body and pulls him close. "I daresay I should call the guards, have you arrested for stealing."  
  
Silas frowns, brows knitted. "Stealing what?" **  
****  
**"My virtue," he says, eyes closed and head thrown back like a lamenting damsel. "One and twenty years I held onto it, kept myself pure as maiden snow, and then in swans this handsome, rakish, devious lothario to deflower me. Oh! How was I to resist- especially when he speaks to me of such _wicked_ things. As soon as he started talking about the mating habits of banaboonas I _begged_ him to take me-"  
  
"Oh, stop thine gob, loser," Silas snorts, thumping his chest. "I can be charming."  
  
"Yes," Panto agrees, eyes crinkled with mirth. "Dorkiness is certainly a kind of charm."  
  
"Hey-!"  
**  
** He loses the rest of that protest in Panto's smiling mouth, a stolen kiss giving way to two. Then three. Then a few more, enough to lose track, enough to have Silas’ loose limbed and melting into the mattress. Which feels a little different than usual, he now has presence of mind to notice. “What- what are we lying on?” he mumbles between presses of lips, dazed yet still curious.

“Duckduckgoose down,” says Panto, followed by another kiss. “And slinkulunt leaves- did you know they stay springy even when dried out?”

Silas blinks, pulling back to look Panto in the eyes. “Yes, I… Panto, did you _make_ yourself a mattress?”

Panto blushes- yes, _blushes,_ Silas may just be going even gooier than before. “I can be crafty!”

“Yes, but… _why?”_

“Well,” says Panto, with a duck of his head and a sheepish shrug. “I know you don’t like the way they farm mattresses just to dry them out, so I… didn’t want to make you sleep on one. When you came to stay. _If_ you came to stay. I know that it’s not often we can be together like this, I know that it’s dangerous and we have our duties to our families, but should you need it I… I wanted you to feel at home. Here, with me.”

And he thought he hadn’t made this special enough.

“Panto,” Silas breathes, heart so full of warmth and love he just has to share it, pour it out into soft words and softer touches. “You _are_ my home.”

Oh, he’ll never grow tired of that luminous smile. Nor of how it feels against his own. How every part of Panto feels against him, around him- _inside_ him, one day, maybe, they still haven plenty of first times left! Everything Panto is, everything he _does_ makes Silas’ body burst into rapturous song, their hearts beating in harmony to the rhythm of their lips. Every kiss since their first a bar in a symphony, a piece ever growing in beauty and complexity like the vast, unknowable universe above their heads and yet exquisite in its simplicity.

He can carry on. They _will_ carry on, for there’s simply no alternative. They were made to be together, matched to the beat of each other’s hearts, tailored to the patterns of their minds.

If only the rest of the world could see it.

“It’s unfair,” Silas whispers, unbidden. He can’t help it, the thought an interloper on their perfect moment, a looming presence in the corner.

“I know,” Panto replies, in a heartbeat. He doesn’t need context. Their entire _existence_ is the context. He kisses Silas again, eyes closed, foreheads together like they can have this conversation through telepathy alone. “The course of true love never did run smooth. But one day it won’t be…”

“I’m tired.” He sounds tired, he thinks. Sounds world-weary in a way he’s sure he shouldn’t at his age. “I’m tired of living for _one days._ ”

Panto cups his face, breathes raggedly into him. “So am I.”

It’s unfair. It’s so, _so-_

 

**~VII~**

“ _-unfair!”_ Silas complains, swinging the battered brellabramble thorn in another wide, shaky arc and nearly taking out an innocent lamp. Though not quite, which... probably means he was aiming for it. “Why would my ability to swing a pair of _scissors_ have anything to do with how I rule a kingdom? I don’t _need_ to wave swords at people- I can hire people to do that for me! But can I say that to her? Of course not! She’ll just make me feel guilty, call me an upstart; ‘how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!’” he parrots in a high-pitched and unflattering approximation of the Lady Dengdamor.

“I know, my friend,” Panto soothes, watching the agitated flailing of the embittered young noble with sympathy from his safe haven on the bed. “She just doesn’t understand.”

“No, and she doesn’t _try_ to.”

“She’ll give up eventually. She must do.”

“Oh, because I’m such a _lost cause?”_

Panto raises his eyebrows.

“...Alright, yes, true.”

“Silas,” says Panto, picking a pillow from the pile and cuddling it to his stomach. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, remember: above all-”

“ _To thine own self be true,_ yes, yes, I know,” Silas mutters, swinging the bramble towards the same lamp and missing by an even wider margin. “Ugh, why couldn’t I have had _your_ mother raise me?”

“Hm, you’re right- what a wonderful six years that would have been. Before she spirited you away into the woods, of course,” says Panto. The knowledge that she most certainly _would_ have invited Silas to join her ignites a dark spark of jealousy in his gut. Not knowing for certain what Silas would have done given the option is even more concerning; it’s not that Panto has a low opinion of himself, but to a boy like Silas, what can he offer compared to the promise of a simple life in the lap of mother nature? It’s an unpleasant train of thought, and one he's boarded far too many times. He wants no part of it now, so he averts it with a roll of his eyes, chucking a pillow for his friend to try and deflect with his ‘sword’.

Silas, of course, merely squeals and dives aside, allowing the pillow to sail past and out the window. It disappears over the balustrade, landing somewhere in the courtyard with a light _whumph-_ and some very rude words from the poor gardener it undoubtedly just bonked on the noggin. Silas winces, dashing to the balcony to call a timid “Sorry!” over to him.

If a reply comes Panto does not hear it, drowned as it is by the sound of his own laughter.

“Oh, shut up!” Silas snaps. The effect is somewhat ruined by the pillow flying up over the balustrade and _thwapping_ him in the face.

If Panto laughs any louder someone’s going to call the guards.

The pillow landing squarely in _his_ face muffles it, though.

“Hey!” he says, squinting at Silas over the top of the fluffy assailant. “Sneak attack! You _egg!_ ”

Silas’ smile can only be described as _smug._ “You know what they say about love and war, doofus.”

Boy, does he ever.

His cheeks are aflame, his heart awash, both those words echoing in his head for _drastically_ different reasons. Flustered and wrong-footed and acutely aware that it shows, Panto covers it the only way he knows how.

By tackling witnesses to the ground.

“Hey-!” Silas squawks, thumping Panto’s shoulders with his fists as he goes down with a muffled _thud._ Honestly, what a baby; Panto _knows_ he’s not hurt. He made sure to cushion him with his arms and the pillow, obviously. He’s no ruffian. “Geddof!”

“Say uncle,” Panto barters, face safely hidden again Silas’ shoulder as he holds the wriggling boy down.

He doesn’t need to look up to know when Silas’ eyes are narrowing and his nostrils flaring. “Like _heck._ ”

Silas redoubles his efforts, struggling tooth and nail, but sadly possesses all the natural coordination of a baby giraff. Panto need only keep his arm planted on his chest as he leans up, smirking down on him. “You fight valiantly, your majesty, but you’re no match for the greatest swordsman in-!”

Which is when one of Silas’ haphazardly flailing limbs connects with his stomach.

_“Oof!”_

Silas wastes not a second; he may be clumsy, but he can be fleet as fillifawn when he wants to be. He pitches himself bodily into Panto, tipping the balance and rolling him to the ground. He scrambles on top, pressing Panto’s back into the floor as he straddles his waist.

“Say uncle?” he says sweetly, hands pinning Panto’s chest.

Panto writhes a little, considering. He could unseat Silas in a heartbeat if he so chose. There’s no question which of them is stronger, and he doubts very much that Silas will get lucky again.

But looking up at his face, all flushed and giggling, it’s hard to remember why he’d want to do that.

“Uh,” he mumbles, blinking up at Silas; all of the sudden it feels as though he’s been caught staring at the sun.

Silas meets his eyes, blinks back, and at once he isn’t laughing anymore. He’s staring down at Panto with open curiosity and a light rosy dust on his cheeks, tilting his head as though in deep study of a butterfly in a jar. And now that he’s pinned out of ideal tackling stance, there’s nought that Panto can do to hide whatever it is he sees.

“Ah- uncle,” he sputters, scrambling to find his feet as his cheeks burn hot as coals.

He gives up the second Silas presses a hand to his shoulder.

“Panto,” Silas says quietly, brows furrowed in thought; always thinking so hard, this remarkable boy. “Do you- do you trust me?”

Obviously. Absotively. Completely and utterly. But he seems to need an actual answer and Panto hasn’t the slightest idea where to find his voice, so simply nods, heart in his throat because he’s not sure what bright idea Silas just had but it’s enough to have him waiting on tenterhooks for the next part.

Silas nods in return, hand coasting up from Panto’s shoulder to his face, sweeping his hair out of his eyes and awakening a trail of pins and needles in his wake. “‘Kay. I just… want to try something. Tell me to stop, if you want me to.”

Panto can’t imagine there’s _anything_ Silas could do to him that he’d wish to stop. But he nods in understanding, and just in case this _isn’t…_ what he _thinks_ it is. What he hopes beyond hope this is.

Satisfied, Silas pets his hair, smiles a smile like sunshine, and leans down.

For the briefest moment he hesitates, their lips so close together Panto can feel his breath on his face, and the slight, nervous twitch of his hand in his hair has him weak at the knees.

And when their mouths meet the world slows to a standstill.

For a chast, fleeting brush of lips closed and dry, it feels like something more. Something clicks into place, a missing piece and at once the world makes a certain sense. Finally, an answer to a question he’d known not how to ask year after long, wayward year.

Far too soon the moment is passed, and Silas pulls away by but a hair’s breadth; enough to reveal that he looks as astonished as Panto feels. He seems… warmer. Flushed and startled, eyes wide in doe-like discombobulation, lips most temptingly parted.

And then he’s smiling again, wide and giddy, and Panto feels himself falling.

“Wow,” Silas giggles, hand bunching in Panto’s hair.

 _“Wow,”_ Panto agrees, helpless to do anything but laugh with him.

Silas looks down at him, still so close, and the blush on his cheeks is enough to steal Panto’s breath away entirely. “Did you- did you feel the world move?”

Panto shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs, threading his fingers through Silas’ curly hair as he leans up to press their foreheads together. “I think you stopped it in its tracks.”

Silas beams, eyes sparkling, wrinkling at the corners like happy little smiles. “Good,” he says, still a little breathless. “That means we can keep doing this all day.”

Nothing would make Panto happier. But he tamps down his delight, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t want to get off the floor first?” he suggests, bumping noses and grinning in dizzy delight that they simply _can_ bump noses.

He feels the slight tug of hair between his fingers and Silas shakes his head. “This seems as good a place as any to me!”

“But there’s a bed right there!” Panto reasons, heart thrumming fast as a ficklefinch; he knows not why he argues, there is  _nothing_ he’d rather do than stay here all day, with Silas, discovering exactly how far this new thing goes, learning who they are together, learning how they fit in a world shifted on its very axis.

Then again, this floor is _incredibly_ uncomfortable.

Silas tuts, reaches out blindly. Within moments his hand returns, and Panto finds his shoulders propped atop something soft and downy. “And there’s a pillow right here,” counters Silas, befittingly light as a feather. “What more could we need?”

He makes a compelling argument. “But,” he says, teasing Silas with the lilt in his voice and his thumbs on his scalp. “What about sword practice?”

Silas, in an uncharacteristic display of belligerence, actually _scoffs._ “Oh, please. This is _way_ more fun.”

Irrefutable.

Panto surrenders, fully and freely, and cements the accord with a quick, experimental kiss to Silas’ adorable nose. He does it again when the action warrants the most _precious_ face-scrunch in the world, ever.

Silas gets his own back with a thumb on Panto’s lower lip, curiously probing and dismantling each and every line of defence Panto has in the process. He can feel himself liquefying like warm butter under his touch, all but dripping down the cracks in the flagstones of the impromptu not-bed and what’s more, he doesn’t _care._ He’s ready, he’s willing, he’s all set to take Silas’ hands and dive head-first into the deep end. There’s no telling what comes next; he knows what they are, but knows not what they may be. But that’s okay; they can make that discovery together.

As he leans up to steal another kiss, only to find it happily and willingly given, he can’t help but feel this has been-

 

**~VIII~**

 

“-a long time coming,” says Panto quietly, squeezing Silas’ palm between his own.

“I know, I know,” mumbles Silas, anxiety not abating in the slightest. “But what if she doesn’t like me? What if Farson doesn’t like _her_? What if they tell our parents and we-!”

“They won’t- at least, I know Litzi won’t,” Panto assures him, lifting his hand from the duvet between them to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. “She can be a pain, but I trust her. She knows you make me happy, she wouldn’t jeopardize that.”

Silas nods, though his heart remains heavy. For so long it has been the two of them against the world, their love and friendship a secret held under their hats and their hearts. To think of others knowing, even those closest to them- even his _little brother…_

“My love,” Panto utters in a voice soft as water, mirrored in the gentle flicker of his eyes in the candlelight. “Do you trust me?”

It isn’t a question, not anymore. Both of them know the answer, know the depths of their bond as only star crossed lovers can. It’s simple affirmation, a reminder, just another way to say ‘I love you’.

“Of course I do.” _I love you, too._

Panto smiles, so soft as to calm Silas’ rabbit-fast pulse with the mere sight of it. “Then trust me now- Litzibitz will do us no harm. And nor will Farson, I’m sure. They know as well as you or I what it is like, to live with our parents. They know the weight of expectations, and I’m sure you’ll find they have secrets of their own. Perhaps, in time, secrets they will share with us, too. But if we want to earn their trust, we must offer our own.”

Silas laughs under his breath, reaching up to brush aside Panto’s hair. He cut it recently, and Silas misses the long, silken curtain sometimes. But his new style is undeniably dashing, and he enjoys having an excuse to push his uncooperative fringe back. Any reason to touch Panto’s handsome face is a good reason. “Since when have you been such a diplomat?”

The smile that illuminates said handsome face is nothing short of radiant. “Since I fell in love with one.”

Silas giggles, shaking his head at his sweetheart’s flirtations. The boy truly has a talent for flattery. Married with his unshakable confidence, it makes him quite the force to be reckoned with- and frustratingly hard to stay mad at.

Though perhaps not for some.

“Panto!” a voice hisses from beyond the windowpane. Silas has never heard such irritation compacted into two little syllables.

“Ah,” says Panto, eyes drifting towards the drapes. “A royal visit from Princess Pain-In-The-Butt. We’re truly honoured, my love.”

“Shh!” Silas chastises, though he’s giggling too much to carry any real reproach “I want her to _like_ me!”

“I’m sure she already likes you more than me,” Panto comforts him, petting his cheek.

_“Panto, stop smooching your boyfriend and let me in before someone sees me or I swear to heck, I will drag you back to the farm by the baby hairs on your chinny chin chin.”_

Silas raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think that’s saying a lot.”

“Litzibitz!” whines Panto, springing up from the bed with haste to part the curtains. “Be cool!”

Through the glass, Silas catches a flash of pink hair and a shameless grin. “I’m always cool, baby brother.”

Panto _tsks,_ lifting the latch. “Silas, you’ll have to give Litzi some Wenglish lessons, sometime- she always mispronounces ‘never’, it’s rather misleading.”

Silas gapes at him. "Don't drag _me_ into this! I want no part in your sibling rivalry!"

"Oh, boy," laughs Litzibits, punching her brother in the shoulder. "You oughta take a leaf outta this kid's book, maybe you wouldn't get beat up so much."

Silas takes the opportunity while the two are busy with their semi-hostile banter to really look at Panto's sister. Though elder she's just a little shorter than him, and her long, silky hair is tied back in a practical ponytail that pokes out from beneath her weather-beaten stetson. Though young and lovely of face, her eyes speak of hard-won experience. He can see it all in her poise, her strength. She carries the countenance of a worker and a soldier.

The family resemblance is truly striking.

She catches him staring, and despite the urge to drop his gaze and pretend he wasn't doing so out of respect, he looks her in the eye. **  
****  
** He decides he made the right choice when she offers him a wry smile and a respectful tip of her hat. "Howdy."

_Be cool, be cool, be cool._

He grins dumbly, and tips an imaginary hat right back at her. "’Howdy’, my lady!"

_Oh, fiddlesticks._

Litzibitz blinks at him, and turns to Panto. "Gosh darn it, little brother, you weren't fooling- he's _adorable_."

_What?!_

While Silas is busy spluttering, Panto merely sighs with a smile like a big dope as he wraps an arm round his sister's shoulders. " _Isn't_ he?"  
  
"I can see how he stole your heart," Litzibits says conversationally, ruffling Panto's hair. "Those big brown eyes are so pretty... almost girlish!" **  
****  
**"Paws off, Litzi," Panto chides. "He's not your type."  
  
"Oh, absolutely not," she agrees with a Panto-esque roll of her lovely eyes. "But if he wasn't a boy... you'd have competition, mister." **  
****  
** "As if you could beat me in a swordfight."

“Who said anything about swords? I’ve seen you in hand to hand combat, brother dear- I’d lay you out with one good knuckle sandwich!”

“Um,” mumbles Silas, not entirely convinced the siblings won’t begin tussling like tiger cubs right in the middle of his bedroom to prove a point. “My lady, would you care for a drink? I snuck some stuff up from the kitchens, I have pricklepunch, soda, joopleberry juice-?”

“Quit being so la-di-da, silly,” Litzibitz laughs, waltzing over to plop herself on the bed and hanging her scissors on the headboard as she does so. “It’s Litzibitz. Or Bitsy, if you want a knuckle sandwich of your own!”

“...Litzibitz it is,” says Silas, eyeing her hands with mistrust. Though slender, they sport hard calluses and a sense of confidence, not a tremor to be seen. He doesn’t want to find out what they’d feel like slammed into his face.

“Litzi!” Panto whines, throwing himself onto the bed and a pillow at her head. “Quit scaring him!”

She catches the squishy missile easily with nought but a raise of her eyebrows. “Hey, he’s smooching my little brother- it’s my job to intimidate him a _little!”_

“Consider me intimidated,” squeaks Silas, migrating a little into the warmth and safety of Panto’s sprawling form.

Litzibitz grins, tucking her pillow smartly behind her back. “Then my work here is done.”

A sharp knock sounds upon the door, followed by a succession of three tiny knocks and the _stamp, stamp_ of feet on the floor. The secret knock. Silas smiles, tapping the responding _rat-a-tat-tat_ on his headboard.

The door creaks open and the wide, anxious eyes of Farson peek around warily as if he half expects to find lions on the other side.

“Hello, little brother,” says Silas, with a smile he hopes is reassuring. “Close the door!”

Farson steps over the threshold, fear of being caught by Wygar or, maker forbid, Nanny Grunthos outweighing his fear of the strangers in the room, and obligingly shuts the door behind him with a soft _snick._ His gaze flickers to Panto but lingers on Litzibitz, tips of his ears pinkening minutely.

“Farson, this is Litzibitz Trost,” says Silas kindly, resolving to wait until later to kindly point out the very wrong tree his brother is in danger of barking up. “And this…”

He takes Panto’s hand, anxiety ticking his heart up a notch.

“This is Panto.”

Farson stares at them a moment, eyes settling briefly on their entwined fingers. Silas feels himself release a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding when his little brother offers Panto a shy wave, and shuffles forward to meekly present a hand to Litzibitz.

“G’evenin’, m’lady, ‘m Farson,” he mumbles, the dip of his head doing little to hide his blush.

She grins and takes his hand, giving it a polite shake. And then, for good measure, a chivalrous kiss, at which he squeaks loudly and all but curls into a protective ball like an armourdillo.

“Nerds,” Litzibitz mutters, sounding fond. “Adorable nerds.”

Pride wounded, Farson hops onto the bed and scuttles behind Silas, using him as a human shield against his embarrassment. It won’t work- Silas himself learned that the hard way- but he’s happy to let him try.

Panto squeezes his hand, smirking over his shoulder at Farson’s shame-huddle, and it strikes Silas quite suddenly that this is it. Everyone’s here. Well, everyone that matters, _really_ matters to them- his brother, his lover, his possibly (definitely) future sister-in-law. Maybe one day, there’ll come a time where they don’t have to meet so clandestinely, one joyous day where even their parents and cousins and friends will be able to share in these moments together.

But for the time being, there’s no one else in all the world he’d rather spend the night with.

“So,” he says, cupping Panto’s hand between his own much as Panto had done earlier; he’s ready now to take the evening in stride. “Who’s ready for a treasonous slumber party?”

Litzi smirks. “My favourite kind.”

And Panto winks, bumping his shoulder against Silas’. “Ours too.”

Silas rolls his eyes as he reaches for the cord of the drapes above the bed. They’re both as bad as each other.

He loves it.

The curtains drop round them with a heavy _fwump,_ plunging them into semi-darkness broken by the soft golden twinkle of the firefly bulbs he’d spent the afternoon hanging, glittering off the glassy buds of the twirlybloom garlands and casting sprinkles like constellations across the forest green velvet.

He tries not to preen too much at the collective intake of breath from his bedfellows.

“Did you-” Litzibitz reaches over, lightly nudging a twirly bloom and sending it into a lazy spin, watching mesmerised as the glistening bud keeps perfect level- “grow these?” **  
****  
** “Yes!” he says proudly, bouncing in place. “In the garden on my balcony- they come in nicely at this time of year.”

“I could never get these things to thrive,” she says, with what sounds like grudging respect. “What’s your secret?”

He gives a humble shrug. “Suppose I just have a green thumb.”  
  
“‘N he puts stuff in the water,” mumbles Farson.

“Farson!”

“Ooh, what sort of stuff?” Litzi presses, leaning in and heightening Farson’s blush to luminous levels, visible even in the gloom of the firefly light.

“Gross stuff,” he says flatly, hugging his knees.

“Hey!” Silas snaps, affronted. “There’s nothing gross about fermented bileberry juice! It’s perfectly natural.”

“So’s poop,” Farson counters, eloquently. He shrugs unapologetically when confronted with Silas’ admonishing look. “What? I’m not bound to please you with my answer.”

“Poop’s good for plants, too,” Litzi says conversationally, with a grin of wickedness as Farson screws his entire face up.

“Gross. Plants are gross.” **  
****  
** “So, bileberry juice,” she mumbles, looking at Silas with surprise and a perhaps just a touch of admiration. “Not bad for a town mouse. Where’d you learn to garden?”

“From myself, mostly,” says Silas, eyes flickering proudly across his lustrous blooms. “Apparently my father used to tend the plants around the castle, but… well, I suppose for mother they were never such a priority. I just sort of fell into it, watched the gardeners who maintain the courtyards at work, and then one day I snuck a brellabramble shoot onto my balcony and the rest just followed. It’s more fun keeping my own plants away from the main gardens, I can keep interesting ones; I know a man in the market who brings me seeds from all over Wendimoor! Unfortunately he doesn’t find himself in the Knick-Knack Highlands much, there's this particular breed of fly trap-” **  
****  
**“I'll get you one,” Farson chimes in, voice low and bashful. “I'm gonna go there one day.”  
  
“Oh, yes?” Panto prompts, eyes crinkling fondly. Silas smiles, squeezing his hand; he must have been a good big brother, once upon a time.

“Yeah! I'm gonna go _everywhere,”_ says Farson, confidence boosted by the interest. “I'm gonna go places no one's ever been too, 'n map them, I've been practicing my drawing!” **  
****  
** “I'm teaching him a thing or two,” Silas confirms with pride. Farson’s technique is coming along in leaps and bounds- Silas can even tell what it was he was going for half the time.

“You _draw,_  too?” Litzi asks, sending a teasing smirk at Panto. “What are you doing smooching my useless brother?” **  
****  
**There’s something decidedly spooky about the way Panto and Farson’s voices echo one another as they say, utterly deadpan in their crude Wygar imitations: “He’s shit with sword.”  
  
“Language!” Silas squawks, brow furrowing as the reflexive big brother instinct subsides and the insult sinks in. “And _hey!”_

The laughter is as instantaneous as it is infectious, bowling Panto and Farson into one another and Litzi onto her back, cowboy boots kicking at the mattress as she snorts. Even Silas gives in before too long, the merriment impossible not to be swept into- although he _does_ attempt to breathlessly shush people into something a little less likely to get them all caught and possibly executed.

Though the threat of discovery lingers, the tension is broken, and to Silas’ delight and cautious optimism the evening continues as well as he could’ve hoped. The conversation carries naturally, Panto and Litzi sharing anecdotes of their life in the farmlands as Panto’s fingers play absently with the curls at Silas’ nape. With time Farson even emerges from his hiding spot to gaze, openly and adoringly, at Litzibitz- he has the look of a boy who might actually expire from happiness when she takes off her hat and deposits it playfully on his head. And at one point, when the little brothers are playing a game of rock paper scissors that’s verging on the dangerously competitive, Silas and Litzi share a knowing look and begin a ‘dumbest sibling story’ contest- a contest she wins fair and square with a tale of Panto vs. a pinweasel nest. Despite his grumbling, Panto allows Silas to melt into him, pillowed on his chest as the night wears on, as stories are swapped and connections made. As the distance gradually closes, mentally and physically, as fears are confided, hopes expressed, as heads fall on shoulders and feet in laps. As the fireflies begin to go out one by one, settling in to sleep for the day as outside the first rosy fingers of dawn begin to creep across the land, and Silas realises he totally lost track of the time. Realises he was so happy, so comfortable that he could have sat there forever just listening to the whispers and giggles of his companions. He’s so lucky, he thinks, to have this. So lucky to have these people as friends.

He’ll be even luckier to one day call them family.

Panto meets his eyes, and he thinks for a moment they can read each other’s minds. Thinks he sees that same sentiment reflecting in those beautiful blues, etched in the lines of his hand as it caresses lightly over Silas’ neck.

_One day…_

 

**~IX~**

 

“Is she coming? _Is she?”_

Panto grins, scooping the bouncing mass of rosy curls and the child beneath into his lap. “Yes, turtledove, of course she is; she wouldn’t miss your special day, would she?”

His little girl woops joyously, bouncing intensifying, and Panto aids her with a chuckle and a jog of his knee. His little princess loves her Auntie Litzi more than just about anyone- besides her fathers, of course.

Speaking of whom.

“Now, little early bird,” says Panto, nodding to the gently rising and falling mountain of blankets at his side. “How in the _world_ will we wake up papa?”

She hums thoughtfully, head tilted like an owl. It was all for show, of course- they both knew how she was going to rouse her sleeping father. But she’s always had a certain _flair_ for the dramatic.

Panto waits until that familiar gap-toothed grin breaks across her face before covering his ears.

The ensuing rooster screech is loud enough to wake the entire castle; she’ll be putting the bird on the farm out of business before long. Silas snorts and startles awake, blankets falling to his waist as he jolts upright.

Panto could listen to his daughter cackling like a witchykookoo forever. Even with Silas glaring at him like it’s _his_ fault he’s awake. Which it is, perhaps. A little. Silas is no fool. He has a sixth sense for when Panto is at blame for their little girl’s bad behaviour; especially when it interferes with his sleep. Sometimes Panto wonders if he regrets marrying a morning person. **  
**  
“Morning, papa!” a voice as sweet as syrup greets him and, predictably, melts him like warm barley butter.

At least he can never truly regret fathering one.  
  
“Morning, starling,” he greets, voice rough with slumber. He tugs her from Panto’s lap and smothers her little face in kisses as she giggles and wrestles. At the approximate size and weight of a baby boghog, she’s just about the only person in Wendimoor that Silas stands an actual chance against in a tussle. **  
**  
“Papa, your breath smells gross!” she complains, kicking out with stumpy feet.  
  
“Well, you interrupted my dream lunch,” he admonishes, smooching her nose. “It was delicious: fried kettlefish, tuna toast, garlic soufflé…” **  
**  
“Ewwwwww!” She shoves at his face, pudgy hands mashing his cheeks. “That's no dream, that's a nightmare! Anyway, you're supposed to eat _breakfast_ first, daddy says-”

“It's the most important meal of the day, I know,” Silas parrots Panto’s well-worn mantra. Or rather, Litzi’s mantra; she’d taken her abrupt promotion to eldest sibling _very_ seriously. “Have you eaten your worms yet, early bird?”

She squeals in disgusted delight, diving fast as a ferret beneath the covers to hide.

“You won’t find any in there, sweetheart,” Panto teases, sharing an amused look with his husband. “We scarfed down our worm stash before bed.”

“You're both so _gross,”_ she whines, pinching Panto’s stomach under the covers and making him flinch- for all her stampy bluster, she can be stealthy when she needs to be!

“Yes,” Silas laughs, grin breaking out across his face like a sunrise as he roots around under the linen for their burrowing child. “But not as gross as you.”

She doesn’t seem offended, giggling proudly as the moving lump of her form shuffles into Silas’ lap. “Hey, papa you know what day it is?” she asks, voice and excitable bouncing swamped by the covers.

Silas pretends to think about it, _um-_ ing and _ah-_ ing as he and Panto exchange a knowing look. Panto grins and mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key. “Hmm, is it…” Silas says, winking at Panto. “Our wedding anniversary?”

“No,” she says flatly.

“Is it berry picking with Auntie Litzi?” **  
****  
**“ _Nooooo_.”  
  
“Silas, don't tease her,” Panto admonishes, tongue in cheek as he pats the top of the lump with fondness. “ _Clearly_ today is the day she and the rest of her friends fly south for winter.” **  
**  
“It's my birthday!” she screeches indignantly, and Panto hears the light _thump_ of her little fists against Silas’ chest.

“Of course it is,” Silas laughs, gathering the wiggling lump of linens and frenzy against his chest. “And how old are you?”

A small grinning head pops out, followed by two hands with seven fingers raised. Silas gasps, hands flying to his mouth.

“Sweetheart, you’re so _old!”_

“Not as old as you,” she says primly, prodding his nose. “You’re, like, a _million.”_

“And how old is daddy?” Silas giggles upon catching that little hand in his.

Rather than answering right off the bat she looks at Panto, tiny face furrowed in studious consideration, before giving a serious nod and stating with the unparalleled confidence attainable only to children: “A million and one.”

Silas bursts into laughter, wrapping her up in his arms as Panto raises his eyebrows.

“Exactly!” Silas, one year Panto’s junior and _never_ letting him forget it, says proudly. “Clever girl!”

She resumes her bouncing, eyes wide and grin wider. “Do I get presents now?”  
  
“I already gave you twenty!” says Silas, punctuating with another kiss to her nose. “Twenty one, now!”  
  
“ _Real_ presents, papa!”

“ _Tsk,_ thankless child.” He leans into Panto’s side with a long, wistful sigh- he can be rather dramatic himself, when the mood strikes him. “What do you think, love?”

Panto takes a moment to mull it over, using the opportunity to loop an arm round his husband and squeeze him close. “Well… maybe just one- I'm sure Aunt Litzi will want to be here when you open the rest!”

Rather than being excited, their daughter pouts. “I don't have to wait for Uncle Farson too, do I?” she whines, turning big, pleading brown eyes on Panto. “He always takes _forever_ .”  
  
“That's because he's coming for very far away, sweetness,” Silas says, quite reasonably. **  
**  
“Forever and ever and ever and-”  
**  
** Panto laughs, leaning his head atop Silas’. “No, you don't have to wait for Uncle Farson. But when he brings you a weird gift you have to pretend to like it!”

She grins exuberantly, holding out a chubby pinky finger. “Deal!”

Panto seals the pinky swear with her, and then leaves Silas to do the same as he leans sideways and reaches under the bed. He feels around the variety of parcels, some immaculately wrapped (by Silas, of course), some haphazard (his own fault, sadly), and settles on one about the size of a pygmy pumpkin to present her with. It’s one they chose together, a curious little thing they found at the Cogsville market.

It goes down exactly as well as expected, their little girl grinning so wide the top of her head could fall off as she unwraps the little doll. Within moments she has it wound up and going, the little copper swordswoman snipping her blunt scissors menacingly as the girl duels it with two fingers. She cackles, loud and bright and just a touch obnoxious and somehow all the more innocent for it. Just as a child should. Just as her namesake would. **  
**  
“Time to get dressed, Bartine,” says Panto, voice soft as her wild curls as he pets them.

She pouts again, plump lower lip poking out as she scoops up the swordswoman and perches her upon her shoulder. She looks so much like Silas playing with his messenger parrots it makes something bright and joyful unfurl in his chest, to think that she is _theirs._ Panto and Silas' daughter, firstborn of the Trost-Dengdamor bloodline. A beautiful gift from the magical stork, made for them and them alone. Their little bird.

And they say miracles are past.  
  
“But papa isn't even awake!” she squawks.

Panto looks down, and finds that she is right once again. Silas has dozed off on Panto’s shoulder, face smooth and slack. Not perfectly so, though- the little lines of many, many years of joy and laughter aren’t so easily displaced. Each delicate crinkle an etching of their time together, a souvenir of a happy time with room for many, many more.

He doesn’t think he’s ever loved him more.

“You know what to do, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing an apologetic kiss to the distinguished traces of salt and pepper at his husband’s hairline as she puffs out her chest, preparing for another deafening cock crow.

Though he knows one day they may begin to tire, begin to take solace in the quiet days and find peace in the silence, look on their daughter with pride as she grows up and moves on to a life and a passion and maybe even a family of her own, he thanks the universe for this moment. He thanks his family, his friends, the maker of all they know, the saviours of their world. Thanks the magical man who restored the rightful king, and the wonderful woman who restored Panto to the life and the love that he left behind. May their efforts, may their sacrifices never be in vain. For it was never in the stars to hold their destiny, but in themselves; and therein lay bravery unforetold. May the land continue to grow and prosper, and peace live long in the land of Wendimoor.

And may they never spend another miserable morning alone, for as long as they both shall live.

 

**~X~**

 

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick._

Silas has half a mind to chuck that wretched weed out the window. Never has he ever resented so much the incessant counting, the rhythmic sway of the delicate stems and the _click-click-click_ of the spinning leaves. Such subtle little sounds, music to the ears on a good day, a painful reminder of seconds slipping through his fingers on a bad.

Today is _definitely_ a bad day.

He watches the potted plant across the room, moonlight from the window flickering across the dancing fronds. He can see them perfectly across the empty bed. Not that it’s empty, technically, not with him in it but… there’s really no other word for how it feels tonight. How it feels every night Panto doesn’t fall asleep in it beside him. Especially now, when not just the border of their lands divides them.

_Where are you, my love?_

He can’t help the sob that breaches his throat. Every moment they’re apart cuts like a knife. Every breath spent worrying about where he is, what he’s doing, whether he’s even still _alive_ fills his lungs with icy water. His heart aches with longing, with worry and desperation. It’s as if half of it has been torn away, with no hope of returning until Panto returns it himself.

Silas laughs, quiet and watery. “Tis _you_ who should be arrested for stealing, rapscallion,” he rasps, eyes drifting closed as his hands bunch tight in the fabric he clutches to his chest. “A heart is hard to come by.”

The rich cotton of Panto’s shirt rasps with him, warm and comforting under his fingers. A pale imitation of the man himself, but a much-needed anchor in times like these. He holds it to his face once more, breathing in the earthy scents that cling to Panto like a perfume. He laughs, with a touch of hysteria. “Oh, Panto; of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service…”

And here he goes again, speaking to nothing. Oh, what a foolish wreck he is reduced to. How many tears must he shed to lift this crushing weight from his chest? How much sorrow can a heart truly handle?

“Please, my love,” he breathes, yet another warm tear trailing down his cheek, following the well-trodden path of the previous. “Come back to me.”

He lets his head fall to the side, opens his eyes once more to an empty bed. Followed by his arm, collapsing to the downy comforter limply, stretching out across the vast emptiness like a pitiful, rickety bridge. Like a lifeline cast blindly into the depths of the sea. Futile though it may be, it gives him… something. A modicum of buoyancy, of hope that he hadn’t possessed. The feeling that he’s not just lying still in his lonely bed, waiting to be found, but that he himself is searching. Reaching.

Reaching out for Panto.

He sets his jaw, mustering what determination he can; this will not be a battle Panto fights alone. “Doubt I may that the stars are fire,” he whispers, clutching the shirt to his breast. “Doubt truth to be a liar, but… never love. Never doubt I love.”

So he takes a deep breath, clutches his own lifeline, and reaches.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And in another lonely bed, across grassy plains and steel bars and the barriers betwixt dimensions, Panto reaches back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**~Postscript~**

 

_The story of Panto Trost and Silas Dengdamor is still being written, and once writ shall live on the hearts of others. It shall be a long and winding tome of love and loss, of the candid and clandestine, a story entwined in the history of Wendimoor forevermore. A story that will be carried with pride by their daughter, by her children, on and on for generations to come. And though word of mouth will spread the tale thin, tear and twist as befalls all legends, some things will never change. Facts that can not be sullied, even by the clumsiest tongue._

_They lived._

_They loved._

_They persevered._

_And torn asunder by war, by dimensional gateways, by death itself, they always found their way back to each other._

_In truth, the star-crossed lovers of Inglenook were never star-crossed at all._

_Their happy ending was written in those stars long before they ever knew._

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points if you spotted the Shakespeare quotes/paraphrases dotted in there!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who participated, especially my wonderful artists! Special shout out to dirrrk, for whom I had the pleasure of illustrating the Hogwarts AU we all deserve, and Anna for as always being an absolute rock during the writing process while simultaneously finishing a story of their own like a BOSS. Rockstars, the lot of you- we should do this again sometime, I know dark fandom days are upon us with the cancellation and all but as long as there's love in my heart for these characters I want to keep creating, and I'd love to keep sharing that experience with you <3
> 
> Thanks for reading my darlings!!! Comments are love encapsulated and the finest motivational tools known to man, so big shining smiles and thanks if you leave one! And I'll be seeing you again SOON, because now I have no more writing deadlines which means ANYTHING GOOEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS
> 
> Until next time kiddos!! <333


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